Golden Repair
by AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: Greg is no longer married. Molly is no longer engaged. A complicated murder provides the catalyst for bringing some happiness and healing to two fractured people.
1. Survey

**Author's Note: I hope readers enjoy this casefic sprinkled with a good helping of Lestrolly romance :) Reviews are always appreciated!**

 **Thank you so much to my lovely betas: TheLeftPill, MoodyBlue42, and TheEmptyQuarto *heart eyes***

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 _Kintsukuroi ("golden repair") is the centuries-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Beautiful seams of gold glint in the cracks of ceramic ware, giving a unique appearance to the piece. This repair method celebrates the artifact's unique history by emphasizing the fractures and breaks instead of hiding or disguising them._ _Kintsukuroi_ _often makes the repaired piece even more beautiful than the original, revitalizing the artifact with new life. (Zhang, MyModernMet, 2014)_

* * *

The alarm went off at six o'clock, as it did every morning, jolting Greg Lestrade out of a sound sleep and leaving him groaning into the dark room before reaching over and hitting the snooze button. God, he hated getting up in the dark. But it was the only bloody way he could get in a run before work.

He'd been doing the same routine for five years now. Get up, drag on a pair of track pants, a t-shirt and zippy, wolf down a banana, lace up his beat up trainers, and force his body to make the twenty minute run around the block to get his blood flowing. Then back to his bachelor flat for a real breakfast of eggs, fruit, toast, and strong coffee, a quick shower, and into his suit for work.

When he had been married, his wife would just be slouching out of bed by the time he finished his shower. He was lucky to get in a quick kiss before running off to his car, hoping to avoid morning traffic. Really, those last few years, he was lucky to get much of anything from her. Not that he was the sort of husband who only wanted sex and a good meal, although either would have been nice from time to time. He wanted a _marriage_ , which was apparently not what she wanted.

Gail got what she wanted, in the end. A house and a fresh start.

He got a flat in Peckham and more silver hair.

Greg wiped at the steam collected on his bathroom mirror, frowning a bit at the face he saw reflected back at him. He ran a hand along the stubble growing on his jaw and decided to leave it for another day.

"C'mon, old man," he said, reaching for his deodorant. "Time to face another day."

The ten-year-old, fuel efficient compact car he had been driving every day for years got him to the Yard in standard time. He pulled into his assigned parking space in the sub-level garage, trying not to add to the minor scrapes along the edge of the car from maneuvering around too many cement pillars. He hated the tight parking spaces and cramped design of the garage, but it beat having to find street parking in London any day.

He had the lift to himself as he rode it to his floor, a few moments of calm and quiet before the noise of the main floor of the Yard hit him. The start of the day could bring any sort of intensity from the minute he walked in. He could find a lot of tired detectives drinking coffee from cardboard cups, while avoiding the tedious task of needed paperwork, or he could find complete chaos if every criminal in London suddenly decided to stretch their legs and have some fun. His department had been dealing with a lot more of that in recent months, the main reason being that Sherlock Holmes had not been taking a great amount of cases.

The main reason for _that_ was the fact that he'd been in a rehab facility for the first four months of the new year after successfully sussing out the criminal network behind the Moriarty video. Turned out to be a small faction of Moriarty's network that had survived, trying to throw Sherlock and the Yard after a red herring while they had their merry way with bank heists. It hadn't lasted long. The moment it was over, Sherlock had been quietly shuffled off to the countryside near Edinburgh. He'd returned to London four months later, subdued and less inclined to take any cases that didn't satisfy his need for intense mental stimulation.

The Yard had been picking up the slack in the month since. They'd all realized what an immense amount of work Sherlock had done during the two years he'd been 'dead,' and they were all starting to realize it again with this latest retreat. It was a bloody hard thing to explain to the chief superintendent when it came to presenting reports. All Greg could hope for was a slowdown in cases and a chance for his sergeants to complete the ones they did get.

He nodded at Sally Donovan as he walked through the main room towards his office. The sergeant was on her phone, jotting some information down on a pad.

There were positives and negatives to starting the day calmly. On the one hand, he liked the fact that he didn't have to hit the ground running without having a coffee and a pastry. On the other, it was easy to get comfortable and then have the day explode right when you thought nothing was going to happen. There was no warning either way. The DI had never been able to find the key to predicting how the day was going to turn.

As long as it wasn't too weird he could handle it. He was getting too old, too _tired_ for weird. Fortunately, in the months since Sherlock's five minutes exile, weird hadn't been very common.

He'd barely sat down at his desk before Donovan was at his door, knocking out of mere politeness as she let herself in.

"Sir, we had a call from the Savoy. A few of their guests are reporting a smell coming from one of the rooms," she told him.

Greg groaned.

"I hate smells coming from hotel rooms," he said. "Why are we being called? Could be a rubbish bin the cleaning staff forgot."

Donovan gave him a pitying smile.

"High profile hotel, and they can't get into the room," she said. "It's blocked by something on the inside. They want a detective on scene."

They pulled up to the pavement of the Savoy not thirty minutes later; Donovan activated the red emergency light and the two of them climbed out of the car. They were met just inside of the main doors by an impeccably dressed woman with chic blonde hair. She looked every bit the confident hotel manager that she clearly was, except for the fact that whatever was behind the smell in one of her rooms had her worried. Very worried.

He didn't blame her; things like this were typically messy and caused bad press. The reporters alone would be horrendous to deal with; asking questions, calling every day wanting to know what had happened. Depending on what they would find, if it was bad enough, there would be clean-up to deal with. As much as he had grown tired of the ins and outs of murders and death, at least he was used to it. This poor woman was about to be launched into the intense unknown.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, extending his hand to shake hers. "This is Sergeant Donovan."

"Rose Emerson," the woman said, firmly shaking his hand.

He raised his eyebrows slightly at the strong grip, waiting for Rose and Donovan to exchange hellos before following the manager towards the lift.

"We cater to a very important clientele, Detective," Rose told them as they walked, her high heels clicking along on the tiled floor.

Donovan looked at him with a slight eye roll and mouthed, 'Rich.' He tipped his head to acknowledge that she was probably right.

"This particular room was rented out to one of our regular clients, Mrs. Linda Davi," Rose went on, typing rapidly on her mobile while they waited for the lift doors to open. "She and her husband would stay here when they would attend conferences in London or if they were traveling out of country. Her room has been booked for the last three days. She was supposed to vacate early this morning, but never came to the front desk. That's about when we started to receive the complaints."

The lift bell sounded and the doors slid open onto the fifth floor. There was a small group of hotel employees gathered at the end of the hall, and every one of them looked towards the DI and Sergeant as they made their way towards the room with Ms. Emerson in the lead.

"The door won't budge," she explained, reiterating what Donovan had already told him.

Greg looked at the door, pushed open just the slightest bit and with the "Do Not Disturb" sign still hanging from the doorknob. He took hold of the doorknob and tested it, finding a good amount of resistance. Even without trying, he could smell the unmistakable, cloyingly rotten-sweet scent of decomposition. One look at Donovan told him she smelled it, too.

"Have you tried removing the hinges?" he asked, trying not to sound like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

The maintenance man was called and in a few short minutes he had his tools out, wedging them through the small crack at the corner and knocking the brass hinges clean off. The wood splintered and the door would need to be replaced, but it was a small price to pay, in the end.

Once the door was gone, they came face to face with an armoire that had been placed in the doorway, the clear culprit for being unable to get in. Greg and Donovan picked a side and started pushing, grunting a little as the weight of the object was more than they expected. It didn't help that the smell had become much stronger, driving off the few employees that had been lingering.

The armoire groaned and thunked against the wall, finally opening up the space. The room was fairly pristine, hardly used, although the bed was unmade and a tray of room service sat half-eaten on the desk.

Greg immediately saw the pair of stocking feet poking out from behind the bottom of the bed. He took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. This part of the job never got easier, no many how many times he did it.

Donovan was at his elbow as they crossed the room, finding the body of a woman lying face down on the floor, a pool of blood staining the cream colored carpet under her torso.

"I'll call in SOCO," Donovan said in a matter-of-fact tone, turning back towards the door to usher Ms. Emerson out and to put up a border around the room.

Greg took a breath in the quiet of the room, made even more soundless by the presence of death, and set to work making his initial observations. The body wouldn't be moved until SOCO arrived, but he could start with the basics: female, forties to fifties, about five foot eight, in the range of one hundred and forty pounds. Not much of a struggle, by the looks of the room, so she either knew her attacker or it was complete surprise. Either way, the armoire had been moved after the fact. There was no possible way to move that piece of furniture without the notice of another person in the room – or the downstairs neighbor, for that matter.

With that thought, he jotted down a note to question the other guests in surrounding rooms about unusual noise.

The windows and door to the private balcony were still locked from the inside, but it looked as though the door connecting the adjoining room had been pried open, the lock panel under the handle practically ripped off. Still closed, but not secured.

He would need to check on the occupancy of that room. It would be easy enough to leave without suspicion from the next room over, but he doubted that the suspect would be the registered occupant. Why would they need to break into the room if they had come from it in the first place?

Once SOCO arrived, it was easily determined that cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the abdomen. A very quick identification of the victim as Mrs. Linda Davi was made through a mobile database, though the morgue would verify. Within twenty minutes, Greg and Donovan were knocking on hotel room doors and asking the usual questions – did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?

The answer was no with the exception of two guests who had been staying for over four days at the hotel. They reported hearing a shout followed by a dragging noise three nights prior, but attributed the noise to the telly and luggage being moved and thought nothing of it.

Before leaving the Savoy, Greg requested that security send over the footage from Saturday afternoon through Sunday morning. If their system was any good, he would have a visual on exactly how and when the suspect and victim had moved through the rooms.

It was early afternoon by the time he and Donovan returned to the Yard with everything they had at the moment in hand. It would be hours before they heard from Barts about the post-mortem report and the time would be easily filled with looking into Mrs. Davi's activity of the past week. More importantly, he would be looking into the activity of her husband, who had as of yet been entirely missing from the situation. The man had basically disappeared into thin air.

Which he found more than a bit odd. Greg and his wife had had their bad moments before the divorce, but if she had been missing and unresponsive for two days he would have been worried. Hell, he would be worried now, if they still kept in regular contact. But then again, he worried about people. Not everyone did.

His stomach growled as he dropped the file of notes onto his desk and decided that a sandwich and a coffee would be a good idea before launching into an afternoon of research.

"Food run," he told Donovan. "Want anything?"

"I'm fine," she said, holding up a bright orange bottle of Lucozade Energy and a packet of crisps.

Greg shook his head and grimaced.

"That's not a proper meal," he said.

"Then you'd best not come back here with a hot dog and a cola," she said with a teasing smile.

"I'll bring you a turkey sandwich," he offered, meeting her in the middle.

One pastrami and Swiss cheese sandwich, a _diet_ cola (thank you very much, Donovan), and a bag of crisps later and he was poring over the activity of Mr. Donald Davi. Greg made a face when he saw the name. Poor chap had no chance at all, did he? Must've been hell in school.

The activity turned out to be no activity at all. In fact, it appeared that Donald had stopped doing any sort of activity in the last three days - no social media, no underground trips with his oyster card, not even a bank card purchase. He and his wife lived in a country estate just outside of Newmarket, a short drive from Cambridge. Both were graduates of doctoral programs, he in archaeology and she in anthropology. Well known, well respected, and very well-to-do. Mr. Davi taught in the archaeology department of Cambridge University and Mrs. Davi was still an active participant in her field, which took her out of the country frequently, if their plane travel history was any indication.

Greg spent a little time on their respective academic and private websites, equally interested and confused by the material. It was a lot of technical jargon that was clearly meant to entice a more sophisticated crowd. Well, more sophisticated than he was. He liked the pictures and articles directed at the layman on artifacts and buried cultural sites, but when it came to the details of carbon dating and excavation techniques, he was utterly lost. He could probably explain how someone had died if presented with an archaeological crime scene, but the sort of pottery used to bash in the brains of a Roman citizen was best left to the experts.

He found all of that a good deal more interesting than poor Mrs. Davi's area of expertise – linguistic anthropology. He'd had to take a few courses as part of his university education in criminal justice and had barely passed. _Not_ his area at all. He could speak enough French to get by on holiday and that was it.

As for what either of them had been up to over recent days, the only thing he could suss out was that they had been in attendance at a conference for the Society of Antiquaries, at least according to pictures on their social media and the event's website. Mr. Davi even gave a short speech. That had been on Saturday, followed by a gala at Pace London that evening.

No one had seen or heard anything from them in the days since.

A courier arrived with the video footage from the hotel and he and Donovan watched it carefully. At nine o'four in the evening on Saturday, Mr. and Mrs. Davi, dressed in cocktail attire, could be seen on the grainy footage entering their hotel room and placing the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door. Nearly an hour later, a bellman came to their door and briefly spoke with Mr. Davi in the hall before being dismissed; ten minutes after that, Mr. Davi left the room alone. Another two hours and a second man came down the hall, a sports cap pulled low over his face. He knocked on the door and was greeted by Mrs. Davi; she let him into the room with no issue whatsoever.

It was only twenty minutes later when the door to the next room opened and the same man left, calmly, as though everything was perfectly normal. Not a single person entered or left the Davis' room or the one next door after that.

"I hate these," Donovan said bitterly. "Right there on film and unless we get some sort of DNA evidence or a reliable witness, we have no way of figuring out who he is."

"Yeah," Greg said in sympathy. "Never easy." He glanced at the time, looked at the tiredness and anger in his sergeant's eyes. "Go home. Get some rest. If we haven't heard from Barts by now, we won't get anything until tomorrow anyway. Start with fresh minds."

Donovan nodded, gathering her things and bidding him goodnight.

He took his time putting the footage away securely, shutting off the lights of the viewing room and closing the door before heading back to his office. The main room still had a few officers and sergeants lingering at their desks, finishing up their paperwork, but the energy had died down from the long day. Lights were dimmer, chatter was quieter.

He pulled his jacket on and picked up his briefcase, locking his office door before making his way to the car. A quick stop at the corner curry place he frequented secured his dinner and he was home with a cold beer, takeaway, and the telly on before nine-thirty. He laughed a bit at the evening talk shows, carefully avoided the news reports (they always muddled everything anyway, weren't the best way to keep up with things), and by the time the takeaway had gone properly cold and his beer was done, he was knackered.

With the lights switched off and the front door locked, Greg shuffled into his bedroom and stripped out of his clothes. He stretched, feeling and hearing a few joints pop as he brushed his teeth and spat into the sink. He dropped into his large bed and pulled the sheets over his body, letting out a tired sigh and trying not to dwell on the murder before falling asleep. He'd long passed the days when what he saw during the day haunted his dreams, but it still wasn't his favorite thing to think about before drifting off.

It would be a long day of dealing with it tomorrow. He could let it go for now.

He stared at the ceiling, listening to the absolute quiet of his flat and the occasional whir of a car as it passed below on the street, and finally fell asleep.


	2. Level

There was a text from Donovan waiting for him as soon as he parked his car the next morning.

 _I'm interviewing hotel staff about our mystery man. Barts sent an email, reports are ready. Molly Hooper did the pm._

Greg paused, biting his lip as he read the text again. Normally, and really, any time he felt like, he would just request that the paperwork be emailed. Saved time, saved paper, saved him a trip.

For reasons he was almost not ready to acknowledge to himself, let alone anyone else, he started the car up again and drove out of the garage. It was a short drive to Barts. For a few minutes, he sat in the driver's seat after parking, fiddling with his phone. The sun shone brightly through the windshield, not quite obscured by the emerging leaves on the trees lining the lot. The light glinted off of the screen and he lifted it higher, letting out a huff.

"God, grow a pair," he muttered to himself, finally starting a new message.

 _Heard you caught my case. On my way down now, if that's alright_

It was only thirty seconds before his phone chimed with a reply.

 _Perfect timing, just finished putting everything in order for you :)_

Greg smiled and climbed out of the car.

He found Molly in the lab, perched on a high-backed stool in front of a clear portion of bench space. A pile of paperwork was stacked to her left and she was writing in an open file, signing off quickly and adding it to a slowly growing pile to her right. Her signature ponytail was cascading down her back. Her lab coat was draped over the back of the chair, leaving her colorful, Kelly green jumper perfectly visible.

He sniffed, his nose suddenly irritated by the chemicals in the air, and walked past a few of the lab technicians. They didn't even glance up from their work as he passed by. He cleared his throat as he approached her, smiling a little at the way she gently bit her lip as she worked.

Molly looked up and smiled back.

"Hey," she said, turning in the chair to face him. "That was quick."

"Oh, yeah," he practically stammered, realizing there had hardly been two minutes between the texts and his arrival in the lab. "I was nearby, so…easy drive."

"I always forget you have a car," Molly said, starting to rifle through a pile of folders, her brow lowering in concentration. "It's the underground all the way for me, unless it's too late. Then it's cabs."

"Safer for you anyway," he reasoned, putting his hands in his trouser pockets as he waited.

Molly looked at him sideways and her mouth quirked up.

"I've got Farb Gel spray, don't worry," she told him.

"Good," Greg said with a smile. "Wouldn't want London's best pathologist to be in trouble."

"Hm," Molly chuckled, her lips pressed together as she extracted the file she had been looking for. She handed it to him and started to explain the details as he looked at the report. "Multiple stab wounds, all from the front. Most were non-lethal, but one nicked her right main coronary artery. She would have bled out very quickly."

"Any sign that she struggled?"

"Not much," Molly said sadly. "No defensive wounds, although there was a bit of clothing fiber under her fingernails. She probably grabbed whoever did this, trying to stop them. The first wound would have stunned her, probably left her in almost immediate shock."

"Standard knife?"

Molly's mouth pulled tight and she looked regretful about what she was about to say.

"Most likely," she told him. "We still have our imager working on it based on wound size and the damage to her ribs. I can tell you this… I don't think it was sharp."

Greg looked at her and grimaced.

"Yeah," Molly sighed. "I know."

"Well," he said, holding the folder up before tucking it under his arm. "Thanks for this, and… um, you know, let me know if you find anything else."

"I will."

Greg nodded, holding eye contact with her for a few seconds longer than he needed to before dropping his eyes to the ground and shuffling his feet. It would be the moment to say goodbye and leave, but something in his brain was looking for a way to keep talking. The cop in him reminded him very loudly that he had a murder to solve and that he was dawdling far too much.

"Yeah, all right," he finally said with a smile. "Cheers then."

He was only a few steps away, feeling an embarrassing flush creep in at his collar, when Molly chirped out a quick, "Oh!" He stopped and turned, watching her jump off the chair and grab a white cardboard box from the desk.

"Her things," she explained to him, shaking her head as though she was chastising herself for forgetting. "Jewelry that she was wearing and everything. Should it go to anyone? Husband or…?"

"Ah," Greg said. "Well, that's still being sorted. The husband is missing too."

"Oh?"

"Walked out of their hotel room and seems to have dropped off the face of the earth," he told her with a shrug.

"Do you think… was he the one to?..." she drifted off, making an awkward sort of stabbing motion towards her own torso.

Well, it would have been awkward for anyone else. Molly Hooper, however, seemed to have a knack for making morbid…sort of endearing.

He couldn't help the smile as he answered her question.

"Not sure yet, but we can't rule it out," he said.

"Oh, that would be so sad," Molly said, biting her lip.

"Well fingers crossed it… wasn't him," Greg said lamely. Another few seconds of self-conscious silence passed before he pointed at the box in her hands. "Keep that for now, if you need to run any tests on it for evidence."

"Of course," she agreed, her head bobbing once. "And I'll let you know… well, I already said that."

She laughed lightly, giving him a small wave before turning and heading back to the lab bench where more piles of paperwork were waiting for her. Greg bit his lip, knowing that he needed to let her get back to work. And so did he.

He looked at the ground and nodded once, turning towards the door of the lab and making his way out.

 **oOo**

Donovan let herself into his office a little after lunch, a digital recorder and a stack of papers in her hands.

"Afternoon," he said, gesturing towards the seat in front of his desk.

She plopped down and set the stack of papers onto his desk. She ran a hand over her forehead and brushed her curls away, looking relieved to be sitting down.

"The front desk staff remembers seeing Donald Davi come into the lobby that night and take a phone call on his mobile," she told him. "Which is backed up by security footage. No one remembers what his end of the conversation was, but they said he looked somewhat angry. He walked out the front door when it looked like things might get a little loud, never came back in."

"At least not through the front door," Greg said, flipping through some of the interview notes.

"What other way is there?"

"Back door?" he said with a grin.

"Very funny, boss," Donovan dead-panned, reaching for the leftover chips from his lunch.

"In all seriousness, he could've gone back in through a service door, hotel staff aren't exactly notorious for high security when they want a little smoke break," he told her.

"What're you saying?" she asked around a mouthful of chips.

"Isn't it possible that it was Mr. Davi who came back in and…" Greg mimicked the stabbing motion Molly had made earlier.

"He walked out in black tie, changed his entire outfit, snuck in through a service entrance, and went back upstairs to murder his wife?" Donovan asked, somewhat in disbelief.

Greg shrugged.

"Stranger things have happened," he said simply.

Donovan looked at him and tapped her fingers on the edge of the desk.

"I'm not saying it's a _bad_ theory," she said slowly. "I'm just saying, unlikely given the circumstances."

"Why else would he shove off that night, yet to be heard from?" he pressed. "Have we checked financials? Any money moved around or suddenly retrieved from accounts?"

"Not yet," she told him, standing up. "I'll get right on it."

The hunch (or rather, Molly's hunch) proved somewhat beneficial. There was indeed a large sum of money missing from the Davi's mutual account, taken out the very day of the murder. What had happened to it was still a mystery, though. No activity could be reported for credit cards and Mr. Davi's passport had not been used at all. So, unless he was traveling under an alias (again, stranger things), the man hadn't left the country.

"So what now?" Donovan asked him as he leaned against her desk, reading through the information she had printed out for him.

"Now," he sighed. "We get to go to Newmarket."

"The estate?" she asked for clarification. He hummed his confirmation, tossing the reports back onto her desk. "I thought the local police had that secured."

"They do," Greg said. "But I think it would be worth our while to take a look around, don't you? Find out what the old man was up to before coming to London."

"Back here in time for dinner?" Donovan asked as she stood up and started gathering her things. "I've got plans."

"If not, I'm buying. Promise."

Rain spattered the windshield of the car periodically as they made the hour and a half drive north. It seemed that the weather couldn't make up its mind what it was going to do, raining solidly for a mile, followed by random bouts of sun peeking through the clouds. His car splashed through water-filled potholes on the country road as they left the main motorway and he gritted his teeth, hoping his tires would hold. He'd been putting off having them replaced for months and they were overdue.

The Davis' Newmarket estate was nothing that would have been featured in a BBC One evening drama, but it was still impressive. The brick and wood façade and plate glass windows gave the house an austere air, one he associated with stuffy afternoon teas with his grandparents as a child on school holiday. According to the information he'd been given on the property, it dated to the early seventeen hundreds, updated a few times for modern conveniences. Ten bedrooms, six baths, a genuine library and conservatory – more rooms than he would ever own or need in his entire life, even if his wife _had_ wanted children.

A local officer met them at the gate to let them in, informing them that all the staff had been temporarily dismissed and no one had entered the grounds in two days.

The house was an emerging, trendy combination of old meets new. The exterior and general design was dated, but the furniture and décor was distinctly modern. Every room of the estate contained artwork and pieces from various time periods throughout the world. Greg wasn't much of an art lover, but he marveled at the collection.

"Looks Indian," Donovan speculated as she peered at a stone sculpture of a seat figure that was prominently displayed on a side table in the main hall.

"Real?" Greg asked, curious.

"Hell if I know," she replied, straightening up and looking at him. "I had a course at Uni for fun, I'm not an expert."

Greg gave a short laugh before looking down at the directory of the home. There was an office at the end of the main hall, just to the left and – oh bloody hell – the entire basement, which used to be the servants' preparatory area, had been converted into a personal artifact exhibit. He shook his head, wondering what it was like to have that much money to spare.

"Start with the office, then?" Donovan said, reading over his shoulder.

"Good a place as any."

They combed the office, finding financial and academic records for both of the Davis going back nearly a decade and nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Here and there, a letter from a disgruntled student or peer, but nothing that would raise an eyebrow. In the library were family photo albums and journals of their trips around the world, documenting both professional and personal events. Their private bedroom contained a few naughty items that clearly indicated their sex life hadn't been lacking, but that was the whole of it.

The officer who had let them in watched as they poked their heads into the basement exhibit.

"Still 'aven't finished cataloguing everything down there," he told them. "We're working off of a list from the insurance company. One thing's for certain, they were scrupulous about their things."

"Electronics?" Donovan asked.

"Two computers and several memory drives," the officer told her. "We 'ave them down the station, you're welcome to them."

"Thanks," Greg said with a forced smile, knowing what an additional set of electronic data was going to do to his working hours.

He pulled the car into the NSY garage at exactly seven 0'clock, the evening traffic making the hour and a half drive stretch to over two hours.

"Don't even think about it," he said insistently as he caught Donovan looking guiltily at the box containing the memory drives and computers in the back seat. "Go enjoy your evening."

"If you're sure," she said with an appreciative smile.

"Get out, before I change my mind," Greg responded, trying to sound gruff.

Donovan gave him a smile and wished him goodnight, disappearing out of the garage and out onto the street to catch a cab.

Greg sighed and looked towards the glove box. He ran his fingers over the steering wheel and stared some more, knowing he should have just thrown the damn things out months ago. Grumbling, he reached over and yanked the glove box open, grappled around for the flimsy cardboard box and lighter, and climbed out of the car. He shuffled towards the boot and leaned against it, sticking the cigarette in his mouth. It balanced on his lips for a moment as he took two tries to ignite the lighter. Instant relief hit him as the smoke filled his airway.

The cigarette had nearly burned its way down to a stub when his phone started to ring in his pocket. Tossing the cigarette to the pavement and stepping on it, he reached for his mobile, answering when he saw that it was one of his sergeants.

"Carson, what can I do for you," he said by way of a greeting.

"We've received a break-in call you might be interested in, sir," Carson told him over the line. "Barts Hospital, about twenty minutes ago."

Greg pushed off the back of the car, suddenly very alert.

"What happened?" he demanded, rounding towards the driver's side and getting back into the car. He pulled his emergency light from its spot and slammed it on the roof of the car as he listened to Carson's answer.

"Forced break-in, as I said. They made quite a mess of the morgue, obviously looking for something. We thought to call you since everything they touched was connected to your case - "

"Was there anyone on duty?" Greg asked.

"Hospital staff upstairs, but mostly janitorial by this time in the evening - "

"No, in the morgue, was there anyone on duty?" he demanded again.

"Uh." From the other side of the line, he could hear the ruffle of papers. "Yeah. Molly Hooper."


	3. Context

Molly made the rounds after the rest of the path staff had gone home, double-checking that the lab was in proper order before leaving for the night. It had been a long day, but not especially exhausting. Mostly paperwork, which always seemed to tire her out more than any autopsy ever did.

But, she thought as she bumped off the lights and walked out of the lab towards the lift, she had seen Greg, which was nice. It was always pleasant to see friends. She'd lost about half of the mutual friends she and Tom shared during the breakup, and Charlotte in archives had moved to Glasgow a few months before. Meena was seeing a new chap, so her time for socializing had been cut in half.

And Sherlock… well, Molly was one of a select few who knew that his four months away from London were not just an opportunity to get some fresh air. He'd not exactly been in a sociable mood since returning, either. She saw a lot less of him, and consequently John and Mary, unless he needed something for a case. In fact, the last time she'd seen the Watsons had been at little Janie's christening in early April. She thought about dropping in on Mary and the baby sometimes, but they'd not been very close even before things had shattered and spun out of control. What would they talk about? Lovely to see you, the baby looks healthy, by the way Sherlock told me you are really an assassin during a drug-induced fog when he was hiding in my bedroom a few months back. How's the kitchen remodel going?

Yes, friends were thin on the ground, and it had been really good to see a friendly face.

The lift dumped her in the basement and she padded towards the morgue to pick up the last of her paperwork, check a few temperature controls, and finally head home.

She'd barely stepped through the door when she realized something was terribly wrong. Refrigeration doors were thrown wide open and drawers had been pulled out, body bags unzipped carelessly. The door to the storage closet was opened and it looked like someone had tossed almost every box and item onto the floor and out into the morgue – a veritable hurricane of personal effects and papers.

"What in God's name?" she said in disbelief, reaching for the directory phone on the wall. She dialed security. "Yes, hello, this is Doctor Hooper in path, there's been a break-in in the morgue - "

A door slamming outside in the hall made her stop short and hold her breath. Someone, a male, shouted down the hall – it sounded like, "Let's go!"

Molly slowly sank to the floor and out of sight, the phone gripped tightly in her hand.

"They're still here," she whispered. "Please, please, send someone down right now ."

"On our way, miss," came the security guard's swift reply.

She didn't bother trying to hang up the phone, choosing instead to hang onto it, in case she needed a blunt object. Her throat ached from holding her breath as she listened to heavy footsteps making their way down the hall just on the other side of the door.

Please keep going please keep going , she repeated over and over in her head.

Miraculously, the burglars answered her pleas, the sounds of their footsteps quickly receding down the hall and the slamming of the maintenance door letting her know they were gone. It wasn't until she heard the ping of the lift and the security guards rushing towards the morgue that she dared to stand up, finally resting the phone in its cradle.

The police were called immediately and officers arrived within minutes, sweeping the building and the surrounding area and asking her a dozen questions at once. Molly was sat on a stool and nursing a thermos of tea offered up by one of the guards when Greg showed up, finding her right away and walking quickly towards her.

"All right?" he asked her, his voice full of concern.

"Bit off balance," Molly told him honestly. She gestured towards the wall of open cold chambers. "Not every day I walk in to see that."

Greg gave the sight a once over and looked as though he never wanted to encounter it again, choosing instead to look back at her.

"That would shake anyone. They said you saw the robbers?"

Molly shook her head. "Heard them. They had already got what they came for by the time I came down here. One minute sooner and I certainly would have met them face to face."

"Thank goodness for small favors," Greg said, his eyes narrowing and becoming business-like. "What did they take? Carson said it had to do with the case."

"Linda Davi."

"Come again?"

"Linda Davi," Molly repeated seriously, pointing towards an empty cold chamber that was currently being inspected and dusted for fingerprints by Barts own staff. "They took her body. And all of her personal items."

"Shit," Greg swore under his breath.

"Agreed," Molly said. "This was not how I was hoping my night would go."

"No, I'd imagine not," he said sympathetically, reaching into his inside coat pocket and extracting a small notebook and pen. "I hate to turn detective on you, but do remember what was in her personal belongings? Anything that stood out to you?"

Molly took in a breath and thought back to the day before, receiving the body and removing all clothing and jewelry for cataloguing.

"A set of earrings, a necklace," she told him, her hands fidgeting a bit on the thermos as she thought. "A ring, or, two actually. Plus a silver wedding set, with diamonds. That was the only thing that looked really expensive, the wedding set. The rest of it was bronze or copper or something."

"That's all?" Greg pressed her, looking somewhat disappointed.

She shrugged, feeling like she was letting him down. "Sorry. Honestly, that was all. Her clothes were high street; she didn't even have an expensive mobile on her."

"It's okay," he said, dropping the cop demeanor. He tucked his notebook back into his pocket. "Not your job to memorize all of that, you didn't know this was going to happen."

"I s'pose I should start carrying my Gel spray during rounds. Never thought I would need to do that, the majority of people I work with don't give me much trouble," she joked, poorly, glancing at the cold chambers, but he looked at her and laughed nonetheless. She couldn't help but smile in return; his smile was truly catching.

"But other than this," Greg said, nodding towards the mess. "All right day?"

"Cracking," Molly chuckled. "Yourself?"

"Aces," he replied, reaching up to rub the back of his head, sighing.

He shifted on his feet and Molly watched him glance at her before quickly looking away. It was the second time that day she felt like she should be saying something that she wasn't, and so she just took a large sip of tea and tried to watch half a dozen officers do their job in the heavy presence of corpses.

"Sir." A younger officer approached Greg and handed him a square plastic case containing a disc. "The security footage you asked for."

"Wonderful," Greg sighed heavily, taking the case. "Just what I wanted."

Tapping the case against his palm, Greg took a step backwards towards the door, then hesitated.

"Do you have a ride home?" he asked tentatively.

"They've arranged a town car for me," she explained, not entirely sure she was satisfied with that as a solution.

Greg nodded and took another step back.

"Take care of yourself, Hooper," he advised her. "Ring me if you need anything, yeah?"

"Yeah," Molly quickly agreed, watching him turn and leave the morgue.

She fiddled with the sleeve of her lab coat, only peripherally aware of the SOCO team gathering the evidence they needed. Her mind wandered back and forth between trying to figure out what anyone could want with a corpse and a few pieces of jewelry and wondering how she happened to be the lucky one on duty to deal with all of it. When the police and crime scene team began to dwindle and gather their equipment to leave, Molly scooted off of the stool and helped to make sure that all the inhabitants of the cold chambers were properly catalogued and locked away. She checked the temperature controls, the only reason she'd come into the room in the first place nearly two hours before.

The town car that was promised to her was waiting outside when she left Barts, heated seats comfortably warm and soft when she climbed into the back. Poor Toby was just about beside himself by the time she walked into her second floor flat, yowling and winding himself around her legs as she cracked open a can of tuna as apology for making him wait an extra three hours for his dinner.

"Hard day for all of us, my love," she sighed, patting his little rump as he ignored her and ate from his dish.

A very hard day indeed, one that, should she not have had the next day off already, would have prompted her to take a personal day. She collapsed into bed, contemplating reading her latest book for about two seconds before deciding sleep was more important.

And then she proceeded to rotate her mobile in her hands for five minutes, debating whether it was too late to text…

Molly scrunched her face and typed in her code, typing out a message before she could change her mind.

 _Thanks for looking out for me today. I do hope you're able to get some rest tonight. Don't spend the whole night looking at security footage._

The phone buzzed a minute later and she slid the lock open.

 _Could say the same to you, Hooper. Not about security footage, of course, but you should get some rest after today._

Molly smiled at her screen.

 _That's the plan :) Just heading to Bedfordshire now._

 _As am I. The footage waits til tomorrow, I'm afraid. G'night._

 _Night, Greg_

 **oOo**

Molly was enjoying a perfectly sensible lunch of takeaway cheeseburger and chips from the restaurant around the corner when the handle of her front door started to rattle. She knew, realistically, what it was, but part of her was still jumpy from the day before. She set down her burger and the journal article she'd been reading, wiping her hands quickly on a napkin before digging into her purse and pulling out her Gel spray. Lord, it was becoming a bloody joke.

Just as she expected, the door swung open and she caught a sweep of Belstaff walk by her kitchen without so much as a hello.

Well, it had been a while since he'd done this. The last time had been right after his return from Scotland, over a month before. He'd come in and been completely silent for an hour before delivering a five-minute, reflective apology for the last time he'd invaded her flat, so strung out he could barely find the couch to sleep on it. She'd asked him if this was part of his twelve steps, and then instantly regretted her harsh words. His quiet, "Yes…but you deserve an apology either way," was enough for her to tell him he was forgiven. But her rule for him using her place still stood firm: clean, or not at all.

"How long are you staying today?" she called after him, unfolding her legs from her chair and standing up to follow.

"Just a few hours," came the clipped reply.

He was already seated on her couch, dragging her laptop towards him on the coffee table.

"I heard that you had a little excitement at Barts last night," Sherlock said with a too-bright smile.

"You could call it that," she said, settling back against the wall and watching him start to pull up files on her computer. "What are you looking for?"

No answer, just typing. Molly sighed, running a hand through her hair and flipping it behind her shoulders as she walked towards him.

"I might be able to help if you would tell me why it is you're invading my privacy," she said, a little more firmly.

Sherlock ran his index finger and thumb across his lips and glanced up at her.

"Budge up," she commanded, shoving at his legs so that she could sit down next to him and take command of her laptop. "What is it you need?"

"Need pictures of the items that were stolen," he told her, leaning intently towards the screen.

Molly made a face and stopped typing.

"Do you really think I keep those things on my personal computer?" she asked, her fingers gently hovering over the keys.

"No, obviously not," Sherlock said. "But you have employee access to post-mortem information, including the catalogue of personal effects of individuals brought into the morgue."

"Not everything is photographed, it's actually pretty rare to do that with personal effects."

"Not individually, no," he huffed, starting to get exasperated with her. "But you take pictures of the body before clothing and other items are removed, do you not?"

"Oh," Molly said, realizing what he was going for. Her jaw jutted forward and she brought up her employee account on the web. "You could have just said that."

"I didn't think I needed to spell it out for you," he grumbled back. "You're usually quicker about these things."

"Day off," she bit out, accessing the post-mortem files and photographs. "Slightly traumatic night. Forgive me for not being at my best."

"Nonsense, you're still better than most at their best."

That put a small smile on her face. Even when he was being completely difficult, a compliment from Sherlock Holmes was still worth a lot. She looked over his shoulder as he browsed quickly through the post mortem pictures, sending a few to her desktop and then bringing up his email when he'd found what he needed. She bit her lip and watched as he broke about a half dozen privacy regulations by emailing the photos to himself, his phone chiming as each arrived.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, shoving the laptop back in her direction and pocketing his phone.

He leaned back in the cushions of her sofa and brought his hands under his chin, going into a familiar pose. Molly felt her afternoon of relaxation and self-indulgence slip away.

"Just a few hours?" she verified before he went too deep into his head.

"Mm."

"And – and why did you need pictures from my autopsy exactly?"

"Because," Sherlock said slowly, closing his eyes and settling more dramatically. "The jewelry was stolen. And I intend to figure out by whom."

Of course it was stolen , Molly thought, confused. It was very clearly taken from the morgue, along with a body that was in her care. But he didn't seem to be at all concerned about the missing woman or what had happened to her.

It had been on Molly's mind almost constantly since the night before. It didn't matter to her that the husband was MIA or that there was no other family to contact – a person's remains had gone missing before she'd had a chance to do them proper justice and help solve their death and that bothered her. She knew it was absurd to feel personally responsible for the body snatching, but those people in the morgue were under her care. She looked after them as they made their transition to death.

Sherlock made a noise, a noncommittal mutter, and his head tipped from side to side, flexing the muscles in his neck.

She rolled her eyes and got up from the sofa, taking her laptop with her to the table to finish her lunch. It wasn't any fun waiting for him to stop his internal investigation, and it really wasn't any fun being exposed to the sight of his neck muscles.

The idea of the two of them was dead in the water, for many, many reasons, but that didn't mean she tolerated the flaunting of body parts in her own flat on her day off.

Three hours later, Molly was pulling her clothing out of the dryer in the kitchen, using the table to fold and organize, when Sherlock decided to come out of his meditation.

"When does a crime become a crime?" he pondered, speech rapid but articulate.

"Sorry?" Molly said in response, tucking the end of a towel under her chin as she folded it up.

"More importantly, when does a thief become a thief? Is it the moment they start thinking about their crime, the moment they decide they are going to do it? The moment they start coveting the item they want? And it's not strictly a crime unless they are in possession of said item." He paused, tapping his fingers against his lips. "And at the end of the day, what does it matter if the person you are stealing from is dead ? Dead for a day, dead for two hundred years, what does it matter? And yet it does…"

"Four in the afternoon on a Thursday is a little early for philosophizing, Sherlock," Molly said, equal parts amused and perplexed by his speech.

His eyes shot over to hers, his brow lowered.

"What time?"

"Four o'clock," she repeated.

"Damn," Sherlock said with a grimace, bolting up from the sofa. "Late."

"For what?"

"Told John to meet me at Baker Street at three."

"Should you ring him?" Molly suggested, setting the last of the fluffy bath towels on the pile.

"He'll still be there," Sherlock assured her. "He wouldn't miss an opportunity to yell at me about punctuality."

He flashed her a smile and popped his collar, reaching for the doorknob. In the next second, he was gone, and it was as though Sherlock Holmes had never entered her flat at all, never interrupted her day or rambled on about the philosophy of theft. She picked up the pile of folded laundry and set it back in the wicker basket, balancing the whole thing on her hip as she walked to the front door and locked it (he could pick it perfectly fine, but Lord help her if she asked him to lock it on his way out). With a determination to try to ease her mind of both Holmes and body snatching, Molly headed towards her bedroom to put her things away and draw a nice hot bath.

The warm water and lavender scented bubble bath did her wonders, allowing her mind to drift away to more pleasant thoughts. She contemplated where she might go on holiday that summer and what to cook for dinner. She thought about texting Meena to arrange a girls' night soon, preferably not on a night when good telly was airing, and then promptly wondered when she became the type of person to schedule her social life around television programs.

The phone vibrating on the tile floor next to the tub jolted her out of her repose. She swiped her hand on a towel to dry it before picking the device up, seeing a new text.

 _Hey, feeling better today?_

Well, wasn't it just incredibly sweet of Greg to think of checking on her?

 _Much. Any luck with the surveillance video?_

Just getting to it. Briefings all morning and then a bloody press conference about the murder.

Molly made a face, knowing exactly how tedious those could be. And she knew that Greg hated the press and the way they twisted everything up until it was barely recognizable. Everything the media had done around Sherlock's 'suicide' had left a bad taste in all of their mouths.

 _Sorry! Rotten luck. Glad it's past now._

 _Part and parcel_

For a minute, Molly fidgeted with the phone, not sure if she should answer and keep the conversation going. It seemed like it was over, but he usually said goodbye…

The phone buzzed in her hand.

 _What are you up to?_

Oh.

She became rapidly self conscious of the fact that she was starkers in a bubble bath, biting her lip and shifting, sending the water sloshing a bit.

 _Relaxing. Back at work tomorrow, enjoying the quiet while I can._

 _Very smart, Hooper. I'll leave you to it, ta_

Molly put the phone back on the floor and sank into the water.


	4. Pressure

"How is it," Greg asked Donovan as they sat watching the surveillance video for the third time, "that one of England's leading and most important hospitals has such crap video security?"

He'd watched the damn video four times on his own the day before. Well, he'd watched the slideshow of rough, grainy pictures that the cameras around the halls and loading dock took every five seconds. They gave him a frustrating picture of what had happened that night. The dock camera showed two individuals, dressed in dark jumpsuit uniforms, standing outside of the door until an employee exited. How they managed to convince that employee that they belonged, Greg didn't know. One shot showed the door opening, and the next showed the two individuals halfway inside. He jotted down a note to find out who the employee was and to ask them about what they'd seen.

The interior camera showed snippets of them making their way down the deserted morgue hall, disappearing into the refrigerator and emerging minutes later with the body bag of Linda Davi on a stretcher. The loading dock door was propped open when they came out, and the camera just barely caught the edge of a white vehicle that the body bag was hastily placed into.

The stretcher was shoved back into the hall, the burglars disappeared out of sight, and in the next frame the vehicle was gone.

Some two minutes later, they reappeared on the screen, their jumpsuits gone and sports caps obscuring their faces. The door, having been propped open by the stretcher, was wrenched open and one of them stood guard while the other went back inside. The same path was followed, much quicker this time, and the burglar came out of the refrigerator with a box. But this time, rather than heading back towards the dock, he went off in the opposite direction.

It was enough to make Greg's brow furrow.

Then, in a moment that made his stomach knot, Molly came walking down the hall. She pushed into the morgue and ten seconds later the camera caught the burglar running back down the hall.

The encounter was far too close for comfort. It made him sick to think how close that had all come to disaster.

"At least we can tell them where they can put their money during the next budget discussion," Donovan said. "I can't believe Molly didn't walk right into all of that."

"I'll tell her to buy a lotto ticket," Greg half-joked.

Donovan chuckled and hit rewind on the video, taking another look at the vehicle that made a brief appearance in the frames. She had focused in on that detail, determined to catch something to track down.

"There's no way we're getting a license plate off of this, is there?" she muttered.

"Not likely." He stood up and pulled his blazer from the back of the chair, slipping his arms into the sleeves and adjusting it.

"Sort of looks like a lorry, doesn't it?" Donovan said, pointing towards the boot of the car.

"It makes the most sense," he agreed, leaning forward and squinting at the screen. "I don't see anyone tossing a body bag into a Fiat."

"Well it's somewhere to start," she said, pulling her writing pad towards her and scribbling down a few more notes.

"Brilliant, that means we're looking for a white lorry in London," he said cynically. "That should be a snap."

"Don't you have a staff member to interview?"

"On my way, sergeant," he said with an official salute, leaving her to her project.

He was pleased to see an extra security presence at Barts when he arrived. Armed with a screenshot of the employee on the video and a timestamp of the event, he pressed the button for the lift to go in search of Mike Stamford. He looked up in surprise when the doors slid open and he saw John and Sherlock.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted him with a nod. "Here about the break-in, I assume."

"Are you?" Greg asked, somewhat confused.

"Sort of," Sherlock said vaguely.

John spared Sherlock a judgmental look before smiling at Greg, throwing his hand out to hold the lift doors as they started to close. Greg stepped forward quickly, taking the open place next to Sherlock.

"I didn't know you were investigating this one," he said, trying not to sound defensive. It was his case, after all, and Sherlock usually only helped with NSY if he was requested.

"We're not," Sherlock replied unhelpfully. "We're investigating the theft."

Greg leaned forward and looked to John, silently asking for help.

"Jewelry theft," John told him. "We were approached by a private client."

" _I_ was approached by a private client," Sherlock clarified.

Greg pulled a slightly confused face and stared straight ahead. The lift reached the second floor and the doors opened onto the brightly lit hospital hall. All three of them stepped off and Greg decided to follow them to the lab before continuing on to Stamford's office.

Considering that the only people who could possibly be bothered by the theft of the jewelry were either dead or missing, Greg was having a hard time understanding why Sherlock would be interested in what had happened.

"And you think, what, this is the same set of thieves?" he asked as they walked.

"Maybe."

"What would a jewel thief want with the corpse?" Greg questioned.

"An excellent question, Garret," Sherlock said with a thin smile, pulling the door to the lab open and holding it while John walked inside. "Very possibly, that's the reason I am investigating."

"So," Greg said, catching the door before it closed as Sherlock walked inside the lab. "Are we collaborating on this one, or…"

"If you wish," Sherlock said as he removed his gloves and coat, hanging it on the hook by the door.

"If it is connected, might go faster if we share information," Greg suggested.

Sherlock sighed and tipped his head back, looking irritated.

"Fantastic," he said, sounding anything but excited. "Feel free to tell me all about what you discover from… why are you here again?"

"Meeting with Stamford for an employee identification," Greg informed him. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Might check in on Molly, see how she's doing."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his tone clipped.

"Well…she narrowly avoided being in the middle of the burglary," Greg said, the images on the surveillance video popping up in his mind.

"She's fine," Sherlock told him.

"You've seen her?"

"Yes. And she's fine. Now go do whatever it is you're here to do."

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode directly to a microscope, pulling a vial of something out of his pocket and placing it on the lab bench. He began to gather other items that he needed and Greg glanced away, making awkward eye contact with John. He stepped back and let the door swing shut, feeling oddly like a dismissed child, which he hated. In general, he liked working with Sherlock and certainly had more appreciation and affinity to the him than most. The way that Sherlock had changed over the years from the wasting young man who tripped into Greg's care to the man he was now (however imperfect) was more than anyone had really expected. The man meant a lot to him.

That didn't mean he couldn't also be a complete arse.

Stamford was able to recognize one of the lab techs based the security photo and the time stamp for their clock-out. He called for the young man to be brought into the office for Greg to interview. According to twenty-three year old Raj Kalkat, two men with a delivery order to replace a part of the refrigeration unit were waiting on the loading dock when he ended his shift for the day. They showed him the work order, he thought nothing of it and let them in. They were described as tall, Caucasian, and middle aged.

When Greg asked for clarification on middle aged, Raj's ego-boosting response was, "I dunno, thirty-five?"

Greg refrained from dropping his head into his hands and dismissed Raj, thanking him for the information.

 **oOo**

It was late into the next day when he was trying to capture decent screenshots of the suspects that something caught Greg's eye. Bringing up both shots of the duo entering Barts, he called Donovan in, pointing at the side-by-side pictures on his computer.

"What do you see here?" he asked her. Donovan squinted a bit, looking carefully, but obviously not quite catching what he was going for. "Remember what our witness said about the two men? Tall?"

"Oh," Donovan said with a sharp inhale, her eyes widening.

Greg nodded, glad that he wasn't the only one who noticed that one of the people in the second shot, whoever it was, was not the same as the ones that had stolen the body. The first two easily reached the top hinges of the loading dock door. This person came short by about half a foot.

"Two different people," Donovan sighed.

"Two different groups," Greg elaborated, rubbing his temples at the complication. He groaned and stood up. "I'm going back down there to have a look around."

"SOCO already swept Barts from top to bottom," she pointed out, swiveling in her chair to look at him.

"The morgue, yeah. But where did our short burglar go before he cut out of there?" He glanced at his watch. Shortly after six, he should basically have the place to himself to look around. "I want to see what he was after."

"Hm," Donovan hummed with a nod, taking the printouts of the screenshots to be distributed to the media. "Say hi to Molly for me."

Greg paused, frowning at her.

"She won't be there, it's after five," he said, realizing too late that knowing Molly's schedule did not exactly work in his favor. Donovan's smirk was confirmation of that.

"Well if she is," she said cheerfully. "Say hello."

 **oOo**

Molly sat in front of the mass spec, hitting the 'next' button on her iPod for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was one of those days when her shuffle option seemed to choose every song she was not in the mood to hear, especially when she was trying to distract herself while waiting for a chemical analysis to complete. For the second time. Because a co-worked had diluted a sample wrong and the test had crashed out the first time. If there was anything else to be done while she waited, she would have gladly taken care of it, but the place was spotless and all of the paperwork she could get done for the time being was finished. And so she sat in a mostly dark basement lab, watching a machine run tests for her because a court case demanded a thorough printout of toxicology.

"Dreams" by The Cranberries started playing and she reached into her lab coat pocket and hit 'next' again. She liked the song, but it wasn't quite doing anything for her at the moment.

In the few seconds of silence in between songs, Molly heard a door open and shut out in the hall. She pulled the earbuds out of her ears and sat up, listening.

Were those footsteps? The cleaning staff didn't usually arrive until much later.

She got up from her chair and walked towards the door, straining to look out of the small window without making herself too obvious. Another door, not too far down the hall, opened and closed rather quickly.

She held her breath and listened. There were definitely footsteps. The lab was supposed to be empty at this time of night. She plastered herself against the wall beside the door and turned the light switch off, waiting and hoping that whoever it was would just go back upstairs without noticing her. It was probably nothing, but given what had happened just a few nights before, she felt she had good reason for her heart to be pounding in her chest. She could hear the footsteps approaching, getting closer…

Running on pure adrenaline, she stepped out just as the person opened the door to the lab, hauling her elbow into their stomach. There was a loud grunt as the person doubled over and she took advantage of that, bringing her arm down across his shoulder blades. When she saw a hand come out towards her, she panicked, smacking it away and swinging her fist at her assailant's face. It connected firmly, and she howled at the same time the man shouted in pain, falling to the ground finally. Molly bit her lip and shook her hand out, but kept her eyes firmly on the figure before her.

"Mo – Molly, stop," he wheezed. "S'me. Jus' me."

"Greg?" she gasped. "Oh my God, I'm sorry! I thought it was another break-in!"

She reached down and grabbed his arm, helping him to his feet and peering up at him in the dim light. He had his head tilted back and a hand to his nose. Molly winced.

"Did I break it?"

"Don' thin' so," he told her. "Jus' bleedin.'"

"Here, come sit down," she instructed him, scrambling for the light switch and guiding him towards a stool.

Once he was seated, she darted to the emergency kit and grabbed a pack of paper towels from the supply cupboard.

"Who taught you to hit like that?" Greg asked her incredulously as she ripped a few towels from the packaging and handed them to him to help catch the blood.

"I've worked with the Yard and Sherlock Holmes for more than six years, you think I haven't taken a few self defense classes?" she answered quickly, placing one hand on the top of his head and gently pressing his face forward. "Don't tip your head back, that doesn't help. It's better to lean forward."

"Taking classes?" he repeated, trying to lift his eyes to look at her while still keeping his head down per her direction.

"Kickboxing, Krav Maga. I've gone for a while," she explained while she prepped a few more towels with rubbing alcohol, eying the broken skin around his nose.

"You looking for a new job?" he asked. "There are cops at the Yard that don't throw a punch as well as you."

Molly chuckled, but it quickly turned to a wince as he pulled the towels away from his face and examined the amount of blood he had lost. Not much, but she still felt awful for hurting him. And getting his nice white work shirt stained with blood.

"Here, you're cut up a bit," she told him, placing her fingers under his chin to hold him steady as she dabbed at the cut with the alcohol.

"I've had worse, trust me," he assured her, briefly meeting her eyes before glancing away. "Arguably the best treatment I've had by an assailant."

"Quite literally the least I can do," she said, assessing his face and deciding that he was as patched up as she could make him. She balled the paper towel in her hands and straightened up, taking a step back. Watching him gingerly dab at his nose, his eyes still watering, an idea dawned on her. "Have you been at work all day?"

"Yeah," Greg replied, sniffing a little and scrunching his nose experimentally. "Ten hours at the Yard, always a great way to spend a Saturday."

Molly bit her lip.

"Can I buy you dinner?" she asked. "Not sure if it makes up for beating you to a pulp, but I thought… might be a good start."

Greg blinked up at her, looking hesitant.

"Unless, if you've already eaten, or, or if you don't want to, that's fine," she rushed to say, feeling like an idiot. What a stupid thing to offer, really. Unlike her, he probably had plans for a Saturday night. Why would he want to spend that time with a friend? An awkward friend who'd just sucker punched him.

"No, that, that would be all right," Greg insisted.

"Oh," she said with a smile. "Oh, okay, good then. There's, um, a really good Italian place not too far. All right?"

"Yeah," he told her, returning the smile.

"Brilliant. Just, um, ten more minutes until this old thing finishes," she explained, gesturing to the mass spec. Tossing the paper towel into a rubbish bin, she started walking back towards to machine to check its status.

"If I pretend that you busted a rib, do I get tiramisu out of this?"

Molly glanced over her shoulder in time to catch his roguish grin before he looked down at his folded hands. She laughed, turning back to the mass spec.

"Maybe," she teased with a smirk.


	5. Glaze

The London weather had decided to grant everyone a break from the on-again-off-again rain, offering clear skies and a delicious breeze as the sun sank low over the buildings. Plenty of people were taking advantage; families were out and about in the parks and groups of young people were strolling the streets, loud and full of pent up energy. It was a perfect evening in London to be out enjoying everything the city had to offer.

Which was apparently what every single person in the city seemed to be thinking as well, considering the restaurant was packed when Greg and Molly arrived. The host told them that it would be at least an hour wait.

"Well, who would have known seven o'clock on a Saturday is a popular time to get dinner," Molly deadpanned.

"Can't even remember the last time I went to a restaurant on a busy night," he said, scanning the groups of diners waiting for a table. "Looks like we might be out of luck."

He was trying hard not to show his disappointment. It certainly wasn't Molly's fault; they were both a bit surprised to see this many people out dining, even during prime hours. It was difficult to quiet the excitement he had felt at the prospect of spending an evening with her, enjoying good food and conversation. There had been a small part of him that had hesitated, the part that knew she was only offering to make up for accidentally hurting him. She wasn't interested in him…that way. He was pretty sure of that.

And yet, here he was, unable to turn her down when she'd looked so anxious to do something nice for him.

"Well," Molly started, looking hopeful, "if you want…we could get something to go. My place is just around the corner. I mean, if you want. You don't have to, if you'd rather go…"

"No, no," Greg said quickly, trying not to appear too pleased with the suggestion. He cleared his throat. "Your place, that would be…that would be fine."

And so Molly lead him to a kebab stand two blocks away where they ordered lamb shawarma and saffron rice to go. The shop owner gave Greg a second look, obviously unnerved by the developing bruises and bloodied shirt, but Greg flashed a charming smile and showed the man his badge.

"Rough day at work," he explained, and Molly hid a smile behind her hand.

"That's why I do this," the shop owner joked as he sliced meat off of the spinning rack with what looked like a machete. "Lamb don't fight back."

It turned out that Molly's flat really was just around the corner and before he knew it he was following her up the stairwell to her door. He held the bags of food while she wrestled the keys out of her purse.

"It's not exactly a tip," she said apologetically. "But I wasn't expecting company, so…"

She really needn't have apologized. It was a perfectly sensible flat; simple, but obviously Molly's. The front door opened onto a short hall which contained a coat rack and thin table where Molly dumped her bag and keys. At the end of the hall, two doors sat at an angle; one led to the living area, the other (closed) he assumed led to the bedroom.

"C'mon in," Molly said cheerfully, ushering him inside. A marmalade tabby came bounding into the hall from the lounge, meowing loudly and doing its best to trip Molly as she made her way. "Toby! Goodness sake, I'll be right with you, you dozy cat. We've got company, be polite."

Greg chuckled and followed her.

An inviting lounge with a tan sofa and a modern entertainment center that took up the whole of the shared bedroom wall sat at the front of the flat, framed by an impressive set of windows. A small kitchen and round dining table were situated just around the corner to the left of the door. There were a few books and magazines as well as a teacup and empty plate on the coffee table. A little basket of laundry sat at one end of the sofa and a green and pink knit blanket was bunched up at the other end. Family pictures and various art decorated the walls. A frying pan and a few plates were piled in the sink, but otherwise the place was spotless. And smelled like spring flowers.

"Make yourself comfortable," she said, shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair before heading towards the fridge. "Let's see, there's cola, vitamin water, if you're into that sort of thing, and…ah, cold ones."

She pulled out two frosted bottles of domestic beer and Greg's eyebrows rose involuntarily.

"Sure, yeah," he agreed to the offer, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he placed the food on the table with the other. He watched her dig around in a drawer for a bottle opener for a moment before he thought to make himself useful. "Uh, plates?"

Molly gestured to the furthest cupboard on the wall. "On the right, silverware is right below in the drawer."

It was when he went to remove his jacket that he looked down and remembered the crime scene that was his shirt.

"Do you mind if I use your loo?" he asked, gesturing towards the stain. "Rinse this out?"

"Oh, of course! Would be awful of me to say no, considering," she said sheepishly. She popped the cap off of one of the bottles and nodded towards the hall. "It's through the bedroom."

"Ah."

Of course it is , he thought.

The light was off when he walked into her bedroom, but enough spilled in through the window from the streetlamps outside that he could see to the loo. For whatever reason, he thought it best not to ingrain too many details about Molly's flat in his mind. Particularly not her bedroom.

He walked past the bed, nicely made up with a blue and white willow pattern duvet set of flowers and birds, and into the loo, flipping on the light. He gave his shirt a once over in the mirror as he discarded his jacket, hoping that the blood would come out easily.

"There's some peroxide under the sink," Molly called from the kitchen. "That might help."

"Thanks."

Mind reader , he thought, shaking his head and turning to hang his jacket on the door hook. His hand stilled and he gritted his teeth when he saw a pink camisole and matching knickers already occupying the spot. Tearing his eyes away, he balled up the jacket and stuffed it in the empty space between the sink and the wall. He knelt down and dug around in the cupboard until he located the peroxide. Once the shirt was off, leaving him in a grey t-shirt, he placed the stained portion in the sink and dribbled the peroxide over it, leaving it to soak.

He picked up his jacket again, not quite able to keep his eyes from glancing around the tiny room. A few purple bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash were sat in the corner of the tub. They looked exactly like what he expected, given the light, airy scent that she normally carried with her. Like something that came from a purple bottle with flower petals cascading down the front.

Just as the pink underset looked like what he imagined she would wear…

It was at that moment, right when he was realizing he probably shouldn't be looking at the underthings hanging in Molly Hooper's bathroom, that he heard the front door of her flat open. Cop instinct kicked in and he tensed for a fight, every nerve on high alert.

"What are you doing here?"

Greg could hear the displeasure in Molly's voice.

"My charming brother is lurking at Baker Street. Don't really feel like being in his presence tonight, he never looks here."

Sherlock ? Greg's brow knitted as his brain registered the voice that was coming from the foyer.

There was a moment of muttering that he could not make out, and then –

"Not tonight, Sherlock."

More silence. Greg could just imagine the look of offense and annoyance on the consulting detective's face at being told no.

"Why?" The reply was curt and demanding.

"Because I said not tonight and that should be reason enough."

For a moment, Greg contemplated walking out of the bedroom and putting a stop to the confrontation happening in the flat. But then he reminded himself that Molly was a grown woman and was probably the most capable of handling Sherlock out of anyone he knew.

"Who is he?"

He sucked in a breath at the deeply toned accusation. Several long moments stretched out and he didn't hear Molly say a word.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "For your sake, I hope he's not deranged."

A few heavy steps and one slammed door later, and Greg was fairly certain that Sherlock was gone for good.

He walked slowly towards the door of the bedroom, finding Molly with her hands on the front door, as though she were helping the locks to hold it shut against what she didn't appreciate in her home.

"How often does he…"

She started and looked at him over her shoulder before sighing and letting her hands drop, knotting her fingers together as she shuffled away from the door.

"Not often. Every couple of months he comes scratching at the door. Just looking for a place to hide from his responsibilities."

Somehow, Greg didn't quite believe that, but he let it go. Instead, he stepped out of the shadow of the bedroom and shrugged.

"Could've invited him to stay," he said, clearing his throat. "Just a night in with friends."

He looked up to find Molly staring at him with an odd expression on her face, her mouth parted slightly and her brow lowered. He faltered a little, thinking he'd offended her. Maybe it was the use of the word 'friend,' given how she'd obviously felt for Sherlock for going on seven years. Periods of dull fiancés aside, her feelings for the consulting detective never seemed to waiver.

It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"Sorry," he muttered, hoping he hadn't done too much wrong.

"For what?" she asked, blinking quickly and shaking her head, her expression clearing of dismay in a second's time. "He's rubbish company when he's in a mood like that."

They sat down and tucked into the meal, discussing the case and the puzzlement of the burglaries. Neutral ground topics that steered sharply away from the fact that Sherlock showed up to her flat at night from time to time.

"I don't know what the point of body snatching is in this day and age," Greg said, taking a pull from his beer. "Unless it's before the autopsy has been done. Once that's finished, there's nothing left to hide."

"Not always," Molly countered, balling up the empty paper that had held her shawarma. "You'd be surprised how often we need to revisit the body. We don't always find everything on the first inspection, mistakes can be made."

"You mean you're not perfect?" he said, feigning shock. Molly grinned and looked away. He sighed dramatically. "You let me down, Hooper."

"Well, I'll try harder," she promised. She paused for a moment and took a sip of her beer. "Seems really personal, though."

Greg's heart jumped and he looked at her, attempting to look nonchalant. "Hm?"

"Stealing a corpse like that," Molly clarified, her eyes narrowing as she considered the situation. "To return to the person you killed and just…hide every scrap of evidence that they existed, physically. If it is two separate burglaries, as you say, I don't think the jewel theft had anything to do with the murder. Each party focused in on what was personal to them."

She took another sip of beer as Greg stared at her, incredibly impressed. When she met his eye, she smiled shyly and took a breath.

"Sorry, amateur analysis," she said.

"No, no, that was not bad, actually," he complimented her, rotating the beer bottle gently on the table. "Might need to borrow you from time to-"

Her phone chimed and she glanced at the screen. He could see it easily enough from where he sat and recognized Sherlock's name. Molly flipped the phone so that the screen was facing down.

"Sorry," she said. "You were saying?"

"Uh," he stammered, feeling that the suggestion would seem too awkward if he repeated it. He reached for his napkin, absently wiping at the crumbs and bits of sauce that had spilled onto the tabletop in front of him. "Nothing, really. Just, if you ever fancied - "

Another chime from her phone, this time twice in succession. Molly closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, reaching for the device again.

"You know, the silent mode is a beautiful thing," she said with a forced laugh.

"Molly, it's… it's all right if you need to get that," Greg said, placing his napkin down. "In fact, I should really be going. Don't need to take up any more of your time tonight."

She stood up when he did, her face dropped in concern.

"Are you sure? It's really fine, he's just being a…pest. You don't have - "

"No, really, I'll get out of your way," he replied, reaching for his dinner plate. "Where should I - "

"Oh, don't, don't worry about it, please," she insisted, motioning for him to leave everything as it was.

"Right," he said with a nod, stepping away from the table and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

She followed him to the front door, her arms wrapped loosely around her stomach. He paused at the door, hand on the doorknob.

"Thanks for dinner," he told her sincerely. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Yeah," she offered brightly, giving him a brief smile.

He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, pulling it shut behind him without looking back. Not worrying if she could see him through her peep-hole, he stood there for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

Not the evening he had envisioned, in the end. He wasn't really sure what he'd expected, other than a chance to spend a little time with her outside of work and out of the massive shadow of Sherlock Holmes. That shadow reached farther than he'd thought it would.

"Give it up, mate," he advised himself quietly, hooking a finger into the collar of his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder as he walked towards the stairwell.

 **oOo**

Molly locked the door after Greg left, pausing with her hand on the doorknob for a moment and collecting her thoughts. What a wonky night.

"Oh Toby," she muttered to the ball of fur curled onto the ottoman as she walked back into the flat. "What do you think? Successful night of socializing?"

Toby blinked at her, his eyes narrowed and uninterested. Molly nodded seriously and turned towards the table to start cleaning things up.

"That's what I thought."

Of all the weeks for Sherlock to start making frequent stops at her place again, he would pick the one time that would intrude the most. The whole point of having a bolt hole was so that people wouldn't know where to look for him, and it really didn't do much good if he just dropped in for anybody to see. Not that her having company had ever been an issue before; she rarely had company. Which, she supposed as she rinsed and stacked the plates into the drying rack, spoke more about her social life than anything else if he was so comfortable dropping in at any time without warning.

It was just…embarrassing, to have it happen that night of all nights. If Sherlock had seen Greg, he either would have commandeered him for his own investigating purposes, or he would have set the place on fire with the speed of his deductions, most of which would have suggested Greg was there for a quick one. Sherlock was nice and tactful like that.

Of course, the idea was absurd, Molly thought as she shut off the kitchen light and wandered into the bedroom to collect her pyjamas. She'd known Greg for six years, most of which he'd been married, and he'd never so much as hinted at wanting to be more than friends or spending any time outside of work together at all. She very much doubted she of all people would catch his eye.

"Oh," Molly said in surprise as she flipped the light on in the loo.

He'd left his shirt soaking in the sink. She'd have to return it to him the next time he came into Barts. Turning on the tap so that cold water rinsed away the peroxide and the majority of the blood, Molly couldn't help but feel a small blush on her cheeks.

She could not believe she had let go of her sense enough to just stand there in the hall and blatantly gawk at him.

His fault, coming out of her bedroom wearing a tight, grey t-shirt and charcoal slacks. Surprising her, looking all tanned and fit and not at all like the Detective Inspector she was used to seeing.

Oh good Lord, Hooper , she thought, shutting the tap off and twisting the shirt to rinse the water out. Get ahold of yourself. It's not like he's doing it on purpose or anything.

She tossed the shirt into her dryer and hit the gentle cycle. The basin started spinning and whirring, the buttons of the shirt clacking gently against the metal. Hopefully Greg would swing by Barts sometime soon and she could return it to him. Well, not hopefully , but…

"Ugh," Molly groaned, rolling her eyes at herself and plodding back into the bedroom.


	6. Settlement Pattern

A week passed before Greg caught a break in the case. With his main source of evidence gone from under his nose and a cold trail lying in the wake of a disappearing husband, he couldn't do much more than wait for crime scene analysis to come through. Not to mention he had the joy of avoiding reporters who wanted an update on the investigation and calls from Rose Emerson at the Savoy who wanted to know when they could take down the crime scene tape and start the process of cleaning the room.

"We're losing customers," she'd lectured over the phone. "No one wants to stay on that floor. It's becoming absurd."

He'd gritted his teeth and did his best to explain that things didn't move as fast as they did in television shows and that she would be alerted as soon as possible. He managed to bite his tongue and keep from reminding her that someone was, in fact, dead and that her murder was still unsolved.

The rest of the week had been spent compiling a list of people who'd attended the conference, cross checking it with the Davis' professional colleagues. Most everyone who had been at the conference that night could be accounted for at the gala, and those who didn't attend had alibis. The most helpful information that had come out of the effort was that the Davis had left the Gala early – unusual, according to a few of the distraught interviewees.

A week also passed before he heard anything from Molly after the evening at her flat. God, what a bloody embarrassment of a night that had been. The more time he had to reflect on it the more pathetic he felt. It wasn't as though he had much opportunity to meet interesting, beautiful women with his work schedule (not to mention the nature of his work) and the one woman who seemed to just possibly fit the bill was apparently still tangled up with the world's only consulting detective.

He could admit that he was jealous. He _had_ to admit that he was jealous. After that night, it was impossible to deny that the feelings he had towards Molly Hooper were not casual or passing. Going home with fantasies about her lingerie and perfume was a rather telling sign.

And, it seemed, there was not a bloody thing he could do about it, not with Sherlock sodding Holmes showing up at inopportune moments. If the idiot wasn't ruining Christmas parties or dragging her to crime scenes, he was evidently taking advantage of her good-natured hospitality. Not that Molly was anything close to a pushover (his still-healing nose was evidence of that), but, well, people tended to go out on a limb for the ones they cared about. God knew they'd all done things for Sherlock that were bordering on illegal, if not outright against the law. Greg had practically lost his job over that fact.

But there was one thing from that night that kept resurfacing, no matter how many times he'd told himself to stop thinking about it: she'd told Sherlock to leave. She hadn't been happy that he'd showed up in the first place. That had to mean something.

Then again, she'd had his shirt for a week and he'd yet to hear from her about retrieving it. She'd probably tossed it in a bin and forgotten all about it.

No matter. He had a case to put together and about a dozen more colleagues of the Davis to interview, for whatever good it would do. Every single one up until that point had said the same things about the couple: they were wonderful, they contributed greatly to their fields, and that it was a terrible tragedy. No one could fathom Donald being the guilty party in Linda's murder.

They had no enemies, according to the people he interviewed, and that put a little red flag up in Greg's mind. In his experience, it was unnatural for one person to be universally liked, let alone a couple. A person typically ticked off a few people during their lifetime, at least, made a few enemies, especially people as influential as the Davis. The lack of antagonism only lead him to believe that he just hadn't uncovered it yet.

It just so happened that Molly was the reason he made his first break in the case. He was cataloguing interview notes in his office, looking for any sort of a pattern or item that stood out, when an email arrived on his computer.

 _From: Molly Hooper_

 _Sub: Post Mortem for Linda Davi_

 _Greg,_

 _We found something interesting with the samples from the wounds. If you have the time, come to Barts?_

 _~ Molly_

He hit reply quickly, his fingers flying across the keys.

 _Molly,_

 _Will stop by this afternoon_

 _G_

She was waiting for him in the upstairs lab when he arrived, looking overly excited about the papers she had in her hands.

"Oh, it's fascinating," she told him almost breathlessly as he joined her at the lab bench. Molly spread the paperwork out on the white surface so that he could see everything. "These are the things that made me want to work in pathology."

"What did you find?" he asked, amused by her enthusiasm but also fairly eager to find out what had her in such a state.

"We managed to get a few samples out before the body was taken," Molly told him. "There was some debris in the stab wound. I thought it was just typical contaminant, but there was something about the structure that seemed sort of off. The mineral and chemical makeup and the pigment present indicate a weapon not made of modern material. In other words, whatever she was stabbed with was extremely crude or severely aged. On a hunch, I sent some of it off to a dating lab – the material dates back over six hundred years."

"Oh," Greg exclaimed, his eyebrows rising as he looked at the reports.

"It was probably a blunt object, bronze, a good bit of oxidation to the material, and," she said quickly, pulling a digital image from the file and showing it to him, "irregular in shape."

A light went on in his head. He thought back to the pictures that he'd seen on the gallery website of the Davis attending the conference. He pulled out his phone and rapidly typed in the search once again, enlarging a picture that featured the couple, a few colleagues, and an item that had been one of several on display that evening – a lightening bolt shaped, bronze knife from Cambodia that the Davis had donated to a collection.

"Something like this?" he asked, showing her a photo of the knife.

"That would fit," Molly confirmed with a nod. "Very likely."

Greg stared back and forth between the photo on his phone and the image that had been created from the post mortem. It was the kind of moment in a case that made him remember why he'd become a cop in the first place – the rush of adrenaline, the excitement of knowing he'd discovered an important detail that could solve a mystery. They had a murder weapon. Now he just had to find it.

"You're brilliant," he blurted out without thinking.

Molly's head snapped up and she stared at him, her eyes wide.

"I, just, who would have thought to look for that?" he stammered, trying to explain himself.

"S'okay," Molly said, her cheeks looking a bit pink. "It's my job."

"Well you do it bloody brilliantly," Greg emphasized, shutting his phone off and tucking it back into his pocket. He reached for the paperwork. "Mind if I take these?"

"Please," Molly said. She watched him gather everything, worrying the edge of her sleeve with her fingers. "How would someone manage to get a knife like that?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," he told her. "No one who was at the conference mentioned that it was missing. So someone is lying."

"Aren't they always," she said with a frown.

oOo

Greg stood in the musty hall outside of the curator's office for the Society of Antiquaries, waiting for him to answer the door after an impatient "One moment!" greeted his knock. He blew a small breath out between his lips and looked at the ground while he waited. Leonard James was clearly a man with a lot on his plate at the moment, if the loud talking and shuffling on the other side of the door was any indication. Who knew that an antiquaries curator would have such an exciting life?

Eventually, the chatter stopped and the door was pulled open. Mr. James, a tall, thin man in a tweed suit, smoothed one hand over his bald head and looked at Greg in surprise.

"Detective," he said in surprise. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"You sound busy," Greg said, sidestepping the question. "I hope it's not a bad time."

"Oh," James said, glancing towards his desk. "No, no, not at all. Bit of a scramble from time to time these days what with reporters calling and… and losing two of our best contributors."

He faltered for a moment, looking almost ill, and then walked back into his office and gestured for Greg to be seated.

"That's actually why I'm back," Greg said as he placed the file of paper on James' desk, opening it and placing the picture of the knife and the post mortem rendering side by side. "I'd like you to tell me if this piece is still in your possession."

If James had looked ill before, he looked positively ready for a fainting spell at that moment. His hands gripped the edge of his leather chair and he visibly swallowed.

"We were hoping to…keep that quiet," he said with a quavering voice.

A small wave of anger swept through Greg. He leaned forward.

""You were hoping to _keep it quiet_ that a weapon in your care is the same one that murdered Linda Davi?" he demanded.

"No, no!" James protested, reaching for his tie to loosen it. "It…the knife, it was supposed to go into the collection that night after we'd revealed it at the conference along with other new pieces. It went missing…sometime between the conference and the gala. I thought…"

Greg looked at him expectantly as James struggled to speak.

"I _thought_ ," James began again, looking down at his lap and speaking quietly, "that you knew…that it was smuggled."

"What?" Greg exclaimed after a moment. It was the last thing he'd been expecting to hear the man say.

"I knew," James admitted, a great deal of shame creeping into his voice. "I knew that the things people contributed weren't always… legitimately obtained."

He said it so carefully, not even wanting to say the words that would make him look oh so bad.

"Black market," Greg clarified.

"S-some of them," James said. "I don't know where they came from, but…well, if you spend enough time in the position I have, you learn to recognize these things."

"And this," Greg said, pointing at the knife. "You haven't seen this since the conference?"

James nodded quickly, swiping a hand over his mouth and wiping at the beads of sweat that had gathered on his upper lip.

"Correct," he told him.

"No idea who took it? Or why?" Greg pressed, hoping to take advantage of the man's current weak state.

"No idea," James repeated the words. "It was there…a few workers were to take the pieces to a back room for preparation before they were put on permanent display. And then it was gone. As I said, we…were trying to keep it quiet."

Sketchy behavior aside, Greg couldn't do much more than tell Leonard James not to leave town. The situation of illicitly begotten artifacts would be turned over to another detective in due time, seeing as how the activity of the Society only had so much to do with the murder investigation. The pressing matter was the knife and how the Davis had come to be in possession of it. He dialed Donovan as he made his way out of the building.

"Did tech manage to retrieve the deleted files from the computer hard drives yet?" he asked impatiently. "No? Tell them to try harder. And let me know when they find something."

He thought about where to start first, where on earth to begin looking for the first real clue he had in the investigation. Sometimes it was best to start back at the beginning – the Savoy.

Which was how he stumbled across Sherlock arguing loudly with a security guard in the hotel lobby.

"I'm sorry, sir, but unless you show me proper identification, I cannot give you any guest information," the security guard said firmly.

"Well maybe if you spent a little more time paying attention to the news instead of drinking until you pass out at night, you wouldn't need identification," Sherlock sneered, oblivious to Greg approaching the scene. "I don't know how I can make it more clear – I'm a _consulting detective_ , I'm _investigating a crime_."

"Anything I can help with?" Greg said, earning a sharp stare from Sherlock.

"This gentleman is insisting on access to the crime scene," the guard told him haughtily.

"It's alright, mate," Greg said, showing the man his badge. "I can vouch for him."

The resulting pouting spell from Sherlock as they made their way to the hotel room was enough to tell Greg that he was embarrassed to have to be nannied.

"Don't you usually just sneak in with a disguise?" Greg said casually as the lift dropped them onto the vacant floor.

"Much easier when they don't have a guard posted on an otherwise empty corridor waiting to escort trouble-makers downstairs," Sherlock muttered.

He reached up and ripped away the crime scene tape and shoved the door to the hotel room open, conducting his own observations of the room.

"Why are you even here?" Greg asked, starting to pull the bedding off of the bed with the intent to inspect the mattress and everything underneath it.

"Same reason you are, no doubt," Sherlock said stiffly, inspecting the blood stained carpet, his eyes darting quickly around. "Looking for the murder weapon."

"I thought you were investigating a jewelry theft."

"Which doesn't exist in a vacuum, unconnected to the theft of other objects," Sherlock explained to him simply, practically crawling on the floor and looking at (to Greg's eyes) an invisible trail leading from the bloodstains to the window curtains. Greg began lifting up corners of the mattress while also keeping one eye on Sherlock's movements, watching him mime wiping something on the curtain. "He thought about it…but no, it would leave too much evidence. Not a smart killer, but smart enough to know that. So instead…"

Sherlock grabbed the lock of the window and undid it, pushing the window open and sticking his head outside to look down. Greg abandoned his current plan of action and joined Sherlock, peering down the side of the building. They saw it at the same time – an incongruous object hanging in the branches of a tree across the street from the hotel, just visible amidst the green of the new leaves.

"Aiming for the river," Sherlock said with an amused smile. "Came short, obviously. Even a good cricket player would have trouble making that distance."

Greg stood watch as Sherlock scaled the tree, about a dozen passersby stopping to stare at the strange sight. Fortunately, he was quick about it and had the knife in hand within minutes.

"So are you going to tell me how you knew to look for that?" Greg asked, slightly irritated. If it turned out that Sherlock had been holding back on information just to be pompous...

"Stopped by Barts earlier for some lab work, Molly showed me the pictures," Sherlock told him, handling the knife carefully with a gloved hand. He looked around and made a face. "Where's your car? I need an evidence bag."

"Molly told you?"

"And a good thing, too, this could help solve both our cases, where's your _car_?" Sherlock demanded again, becoming even more impatient than usual.

As they drove to Barts, Greg tried to imagine a scenario in which Sherlock had been a total prat and demanded that Molly give him information on the case. But there was also the chance that Molly had still been excited about her discovery and willingly shared it with him, knowing that Sherlock would be interested. Either way, they were probably having a grand time doing science and impressing each other. All Greg could do was blunder about how smart she was without offering anything in return…

When they walked into the lab, however, he suddenly reassessed how he imagined the interaction had gone.

"Prints, DNA, inorganics, and pH. The sooner the better," Sherlock instructed, dumping the plastic bag containing the knife on the lab bench in front of Molly. At the firm look from Molly, he added, "Please."

"I'm in the middle of - "

"You've got two hours while waiting for thermocycling, you can start then, can't you?" Sherlock said, pulling out his mobile and starting a call as he walked out of the lab. "John, are you back from the pediatrician yet?"

An awkward silence filled the lab as Molly stood and stared at the knife, her lower lip pulled tightly between her teeth and her hand poised in the air holding a pipette. Greg wasn't sure what to say, considering he really did need the same lab work done for his case. Given the chance, he would have been a great deal _nicer_ about asking for it to be done quickly. Even if it was a habit for Sherlock to demand that his work jump the queue, there was a limit to how many times he could be given preferential treatment by a petite pathologist who looked like she was ready to explode.

Greg wasn't sure if he should try to cheer her up or run. He picked middle ground.

"You can take your time," he said, pulling out his phone as he heard his email notification go off.

"Apparently not," she muttered, expelling the pipette tip into a bio waste container and placing the device on the counter. She reached into a nearby drawer and started pulling out testing trays.

"It's not his case," Greg reminded her firmly, walking to the other side of the room and leaning against the wall, out of her way. "His nibs doesn't run the criminal justice system of England."

"I know, but it just…uh!" she huffed loudly, pushing the drawer shut with a good bit of force. "I'm not an on-demand lab service. I have a life. I can't be here every time _someone_ has to have tests run at a moment's notice and I just, I need, I…God, I don't know what I need," she said with a frustrated sigh, pulling her gloves off and making a face. "Just… _something_."

"Want any help with that?" he muttered under his breath, flipping through the files that Donovan had emailed and not really thinking Molly was paying him any mind.

"Sorry?"

It took him a moment to realize the word was directed at him. He kept a straight face and cleared his throat.

"Nothing," he said, wagging his phone in the air. "Email from Donovan."

Molly stared at him for a second, not looking at all convinced. He bit his tongue and looked back at the phone screen, trying not to feel her burning stare. A few moments later she started moving around the lab again and he let out the breath he'd been holding.

The email was long with multiple attachments; he quickly realized that Donovan must have put her weight into tech and they managed to retrieve the deleted and encrypted files. The Davis had been deep into an artifacts smuggling ring and the knife was only the tip of the iceberg. An entire catalogue of items was listed, including how much they received from other buyers or the benefits they had been given for donating. Many of them were apparently still in their possession.

He glanced up again and watched Molly finish pulling prints off of the knife.

"Care to wait until later to finish with that?" he asked.

"What?"

"I have some missing black market artifacts to track down in Newmarket," he told her with a small grin. "Fancy a drive?"


	7. Reconnaissance

Molly did not think she would be spending her afternoon touring Newmarket with Greg when she'd started her day. Since she hadn't heard a word from him in a week, personal or about the investigation, she sort of assumed that whatever it was she thought she might be picking up from him – friendship, a closer working relationship? – was not actually there. The little bubble of excitement she'd felt at the prospect had slowly deflated as the days passed with no texts or emails. It left her feeling strongly disappointed for a reason she couldn't lay her finger on.

It was still evading her. Confusing her.

All she knew was that she was genuinely happy to have a reason to summon him to Barts and share her findings, feeling undue pleasure and pride when he'd expressed admiration for her work. So few people she worked with offered her unprompted praise anymore that it caught her off-guard. In fact, some people seemed willing to exploit her talent with hardly a thank you lately.

She hadn't needed to think very long about abandoning her post for the rest of the day and hop into Greg's Ford Escort with her spring jacket on her shoulders and a smile on her face. The lab test she was running wouldn't be done for hours, as Sherlock had pointed out, and fingerprints weren't her area once they were pulled. The morgue could do without her for half a day.

Considering how very few times they'd actually spent completely alone, the car ride to Newmarket was surprisingly devoid of awkwardness. Between the new information with the case and the discovery that the Davis had been feeding stolen items to museums and private collections, they had plenty to talk about. She quite enjoyed talking about things with Greg, especially mysteries. He was really very clever, and he understood people; he stopped to think about why people did the things they did when it came to crimes, and not just the superficial reasons. They agreed on a great many things, which was a pleasant change from – well, from other people. Even Tom. For all the good things he'd offered as a boyfriend and fiance, they certainly had their fair share of temperamental quarrels during their relationship. Sadly, most of them stemmed from Tom finding some way to annoy her in that dim way he had. It got worse towards the end, on both their parts. Greg didn't seem inclined towards that sort of behavior.

It surprised Molly to suddenly realize that she was comparing him to her ex's.

The only slightly contentious moment in the car occurred when Greg asked her to reach into the glove compartment and retrieve his sunglasses. She immediately found his stash of cigarettes and pulled the box out, looking at him with accusatory eyes.

"Only for stressful days," he said, looking every bit a caught man.

"Sure," she replied, shoving the box into her coat pocket and grabbing her phone.

"What're you doing?" he asked as she typed furiously on the screen.

"Looking up pathology pictures of diseased lungs since you obviously haven't seen enough to scare you," she said calmly, shoving the phone into his line of sight.

"Ah, c'mon!" Greg cried, batting her hand away. "That's distracting the driver, not safe at all."

"Then I'll save them for later," she threatened.

"You think you're the first person to show me those?" he asked, taking a quick glance at her determined face.

"No, but I hope to be the last," she shot back.

There was silence in the car for a good five minutes, during which Molly worried that she'd gone too far. She wasn't sure if she was close enough to him to justify the lecture. She was perfectly aware that he'd had the habit in the past; she'd smelled it on him before, but it had been a long time since she'd seen any signs of it and she thought he'd quit. Then again, she would probably try to stop anyone she caught smoking if she had the chance. That was the price of being friends with a pathologist.

"I'm working on it," Greg said quietly after a few minutes, his voice rough.

"Glad to hear it," she replied, keeping her eyes forward.

Not long after that, Greg pulled the car into the drive of the Davis' estate. Molly stared out the window, somewhat stunned. She knew that 'estate' generally implied money, but it was still a wondrous sight to behold.

"I don't think I've ever been close enough to a place like this to throw a stone at it, let alone go inside," she said as they got out of the car.

"My grandparents had a place like this," Greg told her. She looked at him, surprised. "Not this big, mind you. But similar."

"And why aren't you living there?" She asked with a small smile.

"There's a lot of debt that comes with a place like this, particularly when you aren't working to pay for it," he explained as he led her up the front steps. He pulled a pocket knife from his trousers and cut down the tape that had been plastered in an X over the doors. "It was sold when they passed away. My dad couldn't afford to keep it on a supervisor's salary at British Gas."

"Oh," Molly said. "I'm sorry."

Greg shrugged as he unlocked the front doors and yanked them open. "Childhood in Leicester was better for me anyway."

Molly tried not to dawdle too much as they walked through the grand hall, though she was desperate to peek into every room and look around. It seemed like the sort of house she could get lost in for days looking at all the knick knacks and books. However, the main floor was nothing compared to the basement display that Greg took them to. Light poured in from wide, short windows along the top of one wall and bounced off of glass display cases and gleaming wooden shelves holding a dizzying array of artifacts. An entire wall at the far end held texts that looked like they ranged in age from new to Alexandrian. From jewelry to weapons to human remains, the Davis seemed to have had their hands on everything ancient and interesting.

And chances were that half of it was stolen.

"Why would they just put it all on display for anyone to see?" she queried aloud as she began to walk around the room, staring.

"Same reason they donated the pieces to museum collections or sold them off," Greg said, pulling a paper list of items out of his pocket. He'd printed the list from the documents Donovan had sent him at Barts before they'd left, telling his sergeant to meet them in Newmarket if she could manage it. "No one questioned it and it only improved their image to own them."

Molly watched him out of the corner of her eye as he moved through the space, his dark brown eyes flicking back and forth from the list to the items in front of him. She'd never had much of a chance to watch him work before or see him so focused. His brief interview of her after the robbery and the ale-influenced hypothesizing at the Watsons' wedding were sort of the only times, and one of those didn't exactly count. She held back a smile as she recalled his theory for the Invisible Man case; she couldn't fault him for his lack of eloquence. If she'd had two or three pints she wouldn't be able to come up with a good theory either, and definitely not in a room full of strangers in a reception hall.

"Doesn't make any sense…" he muttered after a while, his brow furrowed.

"What doesn't?"

"There's nothing here on the list," Greg told her. "Not a single thing."

"So, they hid them?" Molly offered as a guess.

"Where?" he questioned.

They each stopped where they stood, eyes moving slowly around the room in search of a clue. Molly's gaze landed on the corner of the room, right in between a bookcase and a tall Egyptian statue. Her head cocked to the side and she squinted.

"Do you see that?" She asked him, walking towards the corner. Greg followed close on her heels, shoving the papers back in his pocket. Molly pointed towards a noticeably dark line in the stone work of the wall behind the bookcase; another ran down the junction of the walls like a dark seam. "Right there."

"Hang on," Greg said, grabbing a nearby chair and dropping it in front of the bookcase. He climbed up and reached over the top of case, moving his hand along the corner of the wall and the dark line less than three feet away. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "There's a draft."

"Hidden room?" Molly said, not even trying to contain her excitement.

"Only one way to find out," he replied, hopping down off of the chair and moving it out of the way.

For a moment, he looked at the bookcase, considering his options. Molly watched him push at the edges of the case, trying different spots and looking for a weakness or lever of some sort. Then he put his shoulder against it and gave it a good shove, grunting as he only met resistance. He stepped back and glared at the case, hands going to the lapels of his jacket to pull it off of his shoulders. The jacket was dropped on the back of the chair and he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

"See anything?"

The question jolted her and made her realize that instead of helping in any way, she'd been uselessly staring at him. Specifically, his forearms and hands. Fighting the natural reaction of turning bright red, Molly cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the bookcase.

"Um," she stammered, forcing herself to focus and really look at the situation in front of her. Her eyes darted along the edge of the shelves, looking for any sort of anomaly. That was when she started noticing the spines of the books. "Well," she said, pointing at one book in particular.

Greg stood at her shoulder and looked. It was one of a set of volumes with Roman numerals, the only ones of their kind in the entire collection. No titles, no other text at all except the numerics.

"No," he said, almost incredulously. "Do you really think it would be that obvious?"

"'X' marks the spot," she said, feeling oddly excited as she grinned at him.

He glanced down at her, his face still awash in doubt. With a resigned sigh, he reached up and pulled at the book. It tipped partway before sticking and they heard the unmistakable sound of a locking mechanism releasing. The bookcase and part of the wall groaned and slowly swung inward, revealing a hole that led to a dark, secret room. Molly's eyebrows rose and her mouth fell open, practically giddy with the discovery.

"I hate this case," Greg muttered, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his keys. He had a small torch attached to them and he flipped it on, peering into the dark room. A few errant cobwebs floated across the doorway and he swatted them away, taking a step forward. "All I need is a leather jacket and a bloody fedora."

Molly swallowed. She really didn't need that visual for her already flummoxed mind.

She followed him closely as they walked into the hidden room, the only light coming from his torch and the spillover from the basement windows. It was cold and musty and she could tell through the soles of her Oxfords that the floor was dirt and pebbles. About fifteen feet in, Greg's torch began to illuminate shelves of artifacts. They stepped closer, inspecting everything as they moved down the room.

"Is this what was on your list?" she asked, feeling for some reason that she should speak quietly.

"Seems to be," he said, stopping to look at the details of a piece of pottery.

Molly skirted around behind him, walking ahead slightly to peer at a beautiful copper necklace. All of these amazing pieces of history, stolen and hidden away in the dark until the highest bidder took them - it was difficult to understand.

She stepped past the necklace just as Greg turned and shined his light to illuminate her way. She shouted and jumped back as she turned her head and came face to face with a poorly wrapped mummified body, stumbling backwards as her heart nearly burst out of her chest in shock. She knocked into Greg and his light and keys dropped to the ground as his hands went to her arms to steady her.

"You okay?" He asked in concern as she struggled to get her nerves under control.

"Yeah," she breathed out, placing a hand to her heart and willing it to stop pounding. It didn't help that Molly was basically being held against his chest, the closest they'd ever been, to her recollection. It had been months since anyone had been that close to her and the unexpected physical proximity put her off balance. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He chuckled lightly, not yet releasing her.

"Don't you work with dead bodies every day?" he said, teasing.

"They don't jump out at me in the dark," she muttered.

"Pretty sure you were the one who jumped, Hooper."

Molly rolled her eyes and huffed. And then became very still as he continued to hold onto her. If he was doing it just to make sure she was stable, it was going on far longer than was absolutely necessary. A new wave of nerves washed over her that had nothing to do with mummies lurking in the dark.

"Really, I'm fine, Greg," she insisted, trying to step away from him.

"Shh," he instructed her, tightening his grip and holding her still. Before she could express her shock at being shushed, he spoke again in a whisper. "There's someone out there."

Molly froze and held her breath, no longer concerned about getting out of his grasp. She could hear the clamoring of footsteps coming down the stairs into the basement, a pair of voices carrying through the space. In an instant, Greg let go of her arms and bent to the ground, scrambling for the keychain and shutting the torch off.

"Stay behind me," he told her firmly as he stood up, a hand briefly gripping her wrist as he moved them towards the shadows near the wall and placed himself in front of her.

She could just barely see him reaching for the small holster that was attached to his belt at his hip. He must have heard her sharp intake of breath.

"It's a stun gun, Molly," he whispered. A moment passed as they listened to the people in the basement rooting around. "But if this goes pear shaped...the pistol is on my right leg. Don't be afraid to use it."


	8. Diffusion

The one time, the _one time_ , he decides to get some courage and bring Molly to a crime scene and he has to start pulling out weapons. It couldn't have just been a quick jaunt to the country for evidence recovery. No, he had to pick the one day that the house would get broken into as well and possibly put them in danger.

Greg tried to push those thoughts aside as he moved slowly, quietly, along the wall towards the door back to the basement. Whoever was out there was clearly on a mission; he could hear things being knocked around and slid over shelves and countertops. Fortunately, they obviously hadn't found the hole in the wall yet. The advantage was his for few more moments. He could feel Molly right behind him as he slipped through the doorway, his eyes quickly scanning the room as he held the stun gun out in front of him.

A man and a woman were tearing through a stack of boxes that had been shoved under a small workspace by the bookshelves. They each wore canvas rucksacks on their backs, and he could clearly see iron crowbars sticking out of the tops. They'd come prepared.

"On your knees, now," he said loudly, startling both of them. They whirled around, the man reaching for the crowbar in his sack. Greg lifted the stun gun higher, feeling his adrenaline shoot up. He didn't dare look away from the two people in front of him, so he could only hope the Molly was still tucked away in the shadows behind him. "Backpacks off," he commanded forcefully. "And on your knees, now!"

Slowly, they obeyed his orders, not saying a word as they slid their backpacks from their shoulders and dropped them to the ground. The packs fell loudly, the irons banging against the cement floor. With a glance exchanged between them, the pair dropped to their knees, hands in the air. Greg marched forward, gun still poised, and kicked the packs far away.

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded.

He was met with another glance exchanged between them. They couldn't have been any older than thirty and they shared the same dark hair and eyes, the same strong bone structure. Despite their youth, they had a hardened look to them.

"Right then," he said. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to lie down on the floor with your hands behind your head. You're under arrest for breaking and entering and attempted burglary, at the very least. We'll see what else turns up later."

He waited until they did as he said before letting go of the stun gun with one hand and pulling his phone from his pocket. He quickly dialed Donovan's number and told her that she'd better bring back up, then promptly hung up and dialed the local police.

Some ten minutes later, the man and woman were being placed into the backs of police vehicles and Donovan was pulling into the drive, a look of complete bewilderment on her face as she got out of her car. He'd been expecting that reaction, but hadn't really sorted out a good reason for why Molly Hooper was standing on the front steps of the estate with him in the middle of an arrest situation. At least, not a good reason that fell into any sort of professional category.

"Looks like I missed the excitement," Donovan said as he crossed the drive to talk to her. She nodded towards the police cars. "Are those our thieves?"

"They're definitely thieves," he told her. "Whether they're the ones we're looking for or not is still to be determined."

"What did you find?" she asked, crossing her arms as she watched the local response mill about in the fading daylight.

"Evidence of the black market trade," Greg said, nodding towards the house. "We need it collected and cross checked with the lists from their files. These, and the items from the Cambridge collection as well. A lot of it seemed to end up there through donation."

"On it," Donovan said, pulling out her phone to send off the orders. As she typed, she glanced up at Molly. The pathologist was lingering on the steps, looking like she didn't know where to stand to be out of the way of the officers. "What's she doing here? Was there a body?"

Greg cleared his throat and looked around casually. "Nope. Just thought she might be of help, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering she's already helped put a big crack in this case."

"Hm," she chuckled, tucking her phone back in her pocket.

"What?" he demanded defensively.

"Nothing," Donovan said, backing towards the group of officers. "Nothing at all. I always like to bring Lucy round to crime scenes, myself, when things are slow."

If he had any hope that Molly didn't hear the conversation, it was dashed when they got into his car to drive back to London.

"Who's Lucy?" she asked offhandedly.

Greg looked resolutely at the road.

"Her girlfriend," he explained.

"Oh," Molly said, going silent for a moment. "So it was a joke."

"Apparently," he muttered.

The ride back to London, tailing a line of police cars to deliver their suspects to Scotland Yard, was a great deal quieter than the ride out. It might have had something to do with the darkening sky and the general hush that came with an evening drive, but Greg couldn't shake the feeling that Molly was suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe she caught on to what Donovan was insinuating. Maybe he was about to watch his chances with her fade away without ever trying because of a stupid comment from his number one.

"I need to stop at the Yard, file the paperwork for the arrest," he told her as they began to drive into the heart of London, the bright lights of the city a stark contrast to the country they'd come from. "But if you'd like, I can take you home first. You don't need to wait around for that."

"No, it's okay," Molly said lightly. "I don't want to be a spanner in the works."

"You're not, Molly."

"Still," she said, looking over at him. "I don't mind."

The last thing he expected to find when he walked into the Met building was an incensed Sherlock, just waiting to rip into him about his police work.

"Of all the cockups you could have made, Lestrade, you really chose a superb one," Sherlock stated without preamble, causing Greg to stop in his tracks.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" Greg asked in exasperation, not at all in the mood for a fight.

"You arrested the wrong people," Sherlock said firmly.

"No, don't think so," Greg responded with a helpless glance at Molly. "I arrested the people who broke into the home of a murder victim and were in the process of stealing incriminating evidence."

"They weren't stealing anything, they were reclaiming items that had been stolen from them," Sherlock explained tersely.

That made Greg pause. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Sherlock.

"What are you on about?" he asked.

"You arrested my _clients_ ," Sherlock bit out, his eyes flashing with irritation.

"Your…?" Greg stammered, completely blindsided.

"Yes, my clients, the people who hired me to help them find the black market traders that have been ransacking cultural sites from Iraq to Korea," the detective went on.

Greg stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Bloody hell, why didn't you tell me that's what you were doing in the first place!" he practically shouted, his voice echoing in the foyer and drawing the attention of on-duty staff.

"Because it looks bad to the police when people encourage lifting items from museums and private collections!" Sherlock shouted back.

"How do we know they're innocent?" Molly's soft but determined voice cut into the debate.

Greg watched Sherlock turn his head sharply to look at her as though he'd just realized she was standing there. He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw a flicker of surprise and disappointment in the man's eyes.

"What?" Sherlock said, looking derailed but not entirely opposed to Molly's input.

"As Greg said, they were about to steal from a murdered woman's house," she went on. "How do we know they didn't kill her to get to what they wanted? How do we know they're not the ones who broke into Barts? Just because they're your clients doesn't automatically dismiss them from suspicion."

Sherlock's eyes darted over her face and for a moment Greg thought he was about to deliver a litany of deductions that would no doubt be devastating. He prepared himself to stop it and pick up the pieces.

"I didn't realize you were working for the Met, Molly," Sherlock said calmly.

"You know I'm not," she replied evenly, her eyes steady as she looked up at him.

"And yet, one day in the field working an investigation has you acting like it," he replied, cocking his head slightly as he glanced at Greg. "The lab suits you better."

"You'll still get your analysis," she assured him, her chin lifting a bit. "Prints are already off. It'll be interesting to see what the results are."

"Breaking into a home is still a crime, Sherlock," Greg jumped in as the other man opened his mouth to reply. "So is tampering with a police investigation. They'll be held for that until they start talking."

"They're not talking because they're not idiots," Sherlock said rapidly. "They're here reclaiming cultural items from Syria, from their homeland, items that were taken illegally and profited from by rich academics and greedy show-offs in western countries. And I know for a fact that they weren't responsible for Barts," he added, pointedly looking back at Molly, "because I was with them that night putting their case together."

With his peace said, Sherlock flipped up his collar and grabbed the gloves out of his coat pockets.

"Call me when you've sorted your mistakes."

The comment could have been towards Greg, towards his investigation and the Met in general, but he knew that the reason a wave of heat flooded his body was because of Sherlock's almost imperceptible glance at Molly as he walked away. Stepping on his toes at work was par for the course and he was really nearly used to the insults to his intelligence by that point. He was even used to conceding Sherlock's pull on Molly over his own. But to stand there and watch him essentially tell her that she belonged with Sherlock, professionally and possibly otherwise, made him see red about the man for the first time in the ten years he'd known him. Molly had done really well that day; she'd done well throughout the case, going above and beyond her call of duty to provide pathological reports.

And at the end of the day, she wasn't Sherlock's to boss around. She'd said as much herself earlier that very day.

"I think I'm ready to go home," she said suddenly, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

"Yeah, of course," he told her without hesitation, automatically placing a hand lightly at the small of her back and leading her out the front door.

He double parked outside of her building, tossing the emergency light onto his hood in a (slight) breach of police protocol. Molly waited for him on the pavement as he walked around, hands shoved into his pockets and giving the street a once over before finally looking at her.

"So," he said uncertainly.

"So," she repeated, nodding a little and tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. "Thanks for today. I actually had quite a lot of fun."

"My pleasure. Seemed like you needed the break."

"I did," she agreed, smiling a little and looking down at the pavement.

"Sorry it ended so rotten." He wasn't sure what response he was expecting, but all he got was a noncommittal shrug. In that moment, entirely uncertain of what gave him the balls, he decided to press the issue more than he had before. "Look, um," he started, shuffling a bit and clearing his throat. "Just, out of curiosity, you and he…is there something…?"

"No," Molly replied honestly, insistently. Her face turned down in a frown. "No, most definitely not. Things are…things are very different."

There were a few dozen questions he wanted to ask about that statement, but it was neither the time nor the place. It was late and they were tired. Those things could wait, especially considering her answer held such sincerity. Unlike her insistence that she'd moved on with Tom, he believed her this time. Maybe it was because she hadn't moved on _with_ anyone; there was no odd replacement to side-eye with doubt.

"Any particular reason you're asking?"

Her question wasn't one he was prepared to answer. In fact, he hadn't thought the conversation out at all, finding himself stammering out an excuse.

"Ehm, well I, I just want to make sure you're doing alright. You know, just, uh, just concerned for a friend."

Molly looked at him skeptically and he suddenly felt incredibly exposed under her gaze. It did not help that he'd pretty much just put himself on the line; transparent as a pane of glass, no doubt, especially to someone as smart as her. She spent all day looking for hidden clues in dead bodies, so he didn't stand much of a chance.

"Oh boy," he said with a nervous laugh, running a hand over his mouth and rubbing at his jaw. "Are you buying any of that?"

"If you want me to," she said, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"Right." He became serious and quickly looked her over. Was she having a go at him? Or did she know exactly what he was saying? He blinked and shifted on his feet, wondering if this was the right moment; wondering if she had any idea how badly he wanted to just tell her. Or show her. At that moment he wanted it so much it made his teeth ache. "Right…"

The smile dropped from her mouth and her deep brown eyes held his steadily, seeming to wait for him.

His phone rang loudly in his pocket. He grimaced and pulled it out, looking down at the screen, seeing several text messages from Donovan.

 _You left without booking them or filing arrest paperwork! Bad form, Detective Inspector._

"Bollocks," he said through gritted teeth, feeling whatever moment he'd just had slip disappointingly out of his grasp. "It's Donovan. The arrest, I forgot the paperwork…properly mucked it up…"

"Not a problem. Thanks for the ride."

Molly smiled at him again, her eyes lingering on his for a moment before she turned and went up the steps to unlock the front door to her building. When she was safely inside, Greg tipped his head back and let gravity turn him around towards his car. He yanked the emergency light from the roof and tossed it onto the passenger seat before climbing in.

If he didn't have an angry sergeant who would just as soon make life at work a hell if he didn't get his arse back to the Met, he would've very seriously entertained the idea of going right up the stairs to Molly's flat. He groaned and gripped the steering wheel, dropping his forehead heavily onto the plastic.

His phone started ringing again.

"I bloody know!" he shouted, starting the ignition.

oOo

Molly looked at the neon red light of the bedside clock. Eleven thirty-four. Long past the time when she should have been asleep, and yet she couldn't get her mind to stop turning, couldn't get the ramble of thoughts to stop occupying her head. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable spot, and pulled the blankets to her chin.

She was properly freaked out. She knew she'd been sort of pretending she didn't understand Greg's attention, or at least thinking she'd imagined it. Now that she no longer had that luxury, she had no idea what to do. Maybe he didn't know either, which would explain why he backed away as often as he stepped forward. Or maybe she was still imagining things and it was pointless to wonder about.

And then there was Sherlock, making her so brassed off she was ready to sever their friendship altogether. He could be a royal pain in the arse as often as he was kind to her. For reasons that she was pretty sure she had a handle on, he was inclined towards the former behavior in recent weeks. She suspected that a lot of it had to do with her unresponsiveness to his every need, something he wasn't used to from her.

That, and perhaps the time she was spending solving crimes with a certain silver-haired Detective Inspector...

Huffing again, Molly flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. God, she was frustrated. Frustrated with being embarrassed in front of people when she was doing her best. Frustrated at having someone she no longer loved acting like she should live like a nun so that he could have his way anytime he wanted. Frustrated at the thought that a really decent man would let that keep him away...

She knew, she just knew, that her discontent could be easily cured and relieved in a very simple way. She sighed, draping an arm over her eyes and telling herself to just acknowledge what the problem was and go ahead and do something about it. Her hand slid under the blankets and her fingers found their way beneath the elastic of her pyjama bottoms. Letting her mind go blank, her fingers unerringly found the exact right spot between her legs, her muscles simultaneously tensing and relaxing. Sometimes she would take pleasure in delaying her satisfaction, drawing things out, but that night all she wanted was release. She dipped her fingers into her own arousal and drew them back up to her clit, feeling the pleasant throbbing of her blood increase, her orgasm building and curling inside her like a spring.

She was, oh God, so close…and suddenly, completely unbidden, the image of Greg looming over her invaded her mind, his toned arms flexing and his luminous smile directed at her. The very idea of him thrusting into her sent her over the edge, her muscles clenching fiercely.

"Shit," Molly bit out, gasping a little and trying to catch her breath as she came down from her high.

She lay there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"So. That's new," she whispered to herself, both thrilled and terrified.


	9. Total Station

When things in Molly's life became stressful or complicated or painful, she had always had science to rely on to calm her down, to remain a constant in her life. When her parents had divorced, she'd spent hours at the library reading books on animals and space, learning every fact she could fit into her eight-year-old head. When her father had started to succumb to the cancer that ravaged his bones, she'd been able to drown herself in her medical studies, often spreading out her books and notes at the foot of his hospital bed in the very same building where she did her internships. And when she was trying to make it in London on her own for the very first time, triple checking the locks of her first bedsit, she had journals and documentaries to keep her company and ease the worry.

Science had brought her friends as well as enemies. It had been there when she was happily in love and when she was nursing heartbreak.

Thank God she had a few days of lab work to perform on the murder weapon; meticulous tests to run that required her full attention. She could even hoard the results until she had everything she needed for conclusive proof, which gave her time to think about the turn her life had taken. Or worry about it, rather. She couldn't do much thinking, not when she was still trying to sort out what it was she was feeling.

She liked Greg. She'd always liked him, he had been a good friend for a long time. Recent late night activities in her bed suggested that perhaps she was starting to see him in a different light. It had sneaked up on her a bit. It was as though her brain had finally drawn connections between all of the facts that had been right in front of her all along: he was clever (no matter how inferior he might think himself sometimes), thoughtful, determined, and he had such a good heart. And Lord he was fit. That particular fact she was just lately beginning to notice.

 _So what will you do about it, Molly Hooper?_ her mind challenged her.

Hide in the lab behind purple gloves and a microscope, apparently.

And she could only hide for so long. Eventually, the forensics lab was going to have results for her and she would need to pass those results on. She would have to do so while trying not to burn to the ground in humiliation as she looked at Greg and tried desperately not to think about how he would be in bed. It was really very rare for her to go for so long knowing a person, a good-looking, available person, and never wonder that sort of thing at least once. If she fancied someone, it came with the territory almost immediately after she met them. Looking at Greg and imagining his technique while trying to solve a murder case, well, it just wasn't professional at all. Not at all.

She told herself that exact thing about twelve times while she stood in the path lab and waited for his arrival several days after their excursion to Newmarket. Leaning against the lab bench with the results of the evidence tests in hand, she worried her lip and repeated a mantra to remain calm. It was Greg. Kind, funny, easy to talk to Greg. Whose hands looked like they could do marvelous things to her.

"Stop it," she muttered under her breath.

"All right, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly snapped out of her internal ditherings as Raj walked into the lab, wheeling in a cart full of sterilized media.

"Fine, thanks," she told him, straightening the few papers she was holding.

"You look concerned about something," Raj said as he started up a few hotplates and donned mitts to transfer the flasks of media to the hot surfaces.

"Oh, no, not really," Molly said, hoping that she wasn't flushing pink. "Just, ehm, just some disappointing print results."

"Disappointing?"

The worry about the state of her complexion increased tenfold at the sound of Greg's voice. He had pushed open the door to the lab and obviously caught the tail end of Molly's statement. Every word she had planned out in order to make the conversation as natural as possible flew out of her head faster than a hummingbird. She pushed off of the bench as he crossed the room towards her, her hands practically shaking as she fumbled for the report.

"It, uh, well the fingerprints that we pulled from the knife," she stammered, struggling as the staple from one set of pages caught on another. "There was the Davis, obviously. And, uh, James Lewey, who I think was the chairman in attendance at the gala? Yes?"

"Yeah, that's right," Greg confirmed with a nod of his head.

"Yes, well," Molly said, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and finally separating the two staples. She momentarily wondered why he was so collected and she was acting like a jittery animal when he was clearly the one who had reasons to be asking questions about relationship status. "There was another set. It wasn't from Sherlock's clients."

"Oh," Greg sighed in dismay, one hand going to his hip as the other reached out to take the report she held. She watched him read it, his brow furrowing. "Lionel Murphy."

"Public record said he runs a pawnbroker shop in Stoke Newington," Molly explained, having already read the information several times.

"And I thought we had our men. Or, man and woman, as the case may be," he muttered, flipping to the second page. "Pawnbroker, though…that's promising."

He ran his thumb and fore finger over his bottom lip as he looked at the report and oh dear God he really needed to stop doing that because it was reminding her too much of things that had popped into her mind late at night in recent days.

"Is it? Promising, I mean," she queried, mentally barreling right past those distracting thoughts.

"Well, as a whole, they aren't exactly known for dealing with reputable clientele on a day to day basis," he said, returning the papers to their original state. "Makes a bit more sense than Sherlock's clients."

"So it definitely wasn't them who broke into Barts?" Molly said, feeling discouraged and more than a little uneasy that the people responsible for everything were still on the loose.

"There's enough evidence placing them elsewhere that night," Greg said, his face becoming serious. "And, like it or not, Sherlock Holmes is a damn good alibi. The video is just bad enough that the jewelry thieves' physical appearance is sort of ambiguous, but the body snatchers were clearly identified as caucasian men, thanks to the witness of our lad over here," he said with a gesture towards Raj. The lab tech had placed earbuds in his ears and was bopping along to some song as he worked, oblivious to their conversation. "So, it sort of rules them out. They're still being charged with burglary."

"Bit sad, considering what they were trying to do," she commented, shifting her weight and taking a more comfortable stance.

"It is," he agreed with a nod. "The court might take that into account. But perceived ethical motives don't hold up well against blatant burglary, in my experience. And they've been doing quite a lot of that, and not just in London. There are other legal avenues of doing what they were trying to do."

"Oh," Molly replied, thinking back momentarily to Sherlock's ramblings about theft and possession. He'd seen it coming, really. He knew that his clients would face charges if they were caught trying to reclaim their cultural items, but to them it was probably the swiftest and most effective way of retaliating. She looked down at the files still in her hand and remembered the other results that she had for Greg, holding the papers out to him. "The knife was definitely the murder weapon. Traces of blood that match Linda Davi's. The material is identical to what we found in her wounds. If we could, we would confirm that it matches wound size as well, but...no body, so, all we can go on is the renderings."

The dissatisfaction she was feeling with the turn of events must have shown on her face. As he took the papers from her, he didn't even glance at them, choosing instead to focus on her with a determined expression.

"Hey, we'll figure this out, yeah? This is a good lead," Greg said confidently, tapping the print results. "We're getting closer. Nothing to worry about. And in the meantime, you've still got a decent right hook and a DI at your service anytime, day or night."

Molly gave him an amused smile, finding herself touched by his offer.

"Thanks," she said.

"Yeah, of course," he said, smiling easily.

Molly clasped her hands together and let out a small laugh, which he echoed, looking at the ground. He tapped the papers against his thigh and cleared his throat.

"Look, do you - "

"Was there something - "

"Sorry, go ahead," she said nervously.

"No, no, you first," he insisted.

"Well, I, uh, I just wanted to see if there was something else you needed?" Molly half questioned, not sure what she would say if he asked her what she thought he was about to ask her.

Before Greg had a chance to say anything, the magnetic stir bar in one of Raj's flasks went off center, spinning rapidly and smacking loudly on the side of the glass container. Molly rolled her eyes.

"Raj. Raj!" she called across the room, feeling unnecessarily irritated when the tech didn't respond. She huffed and looked apologetically at Greg. "Always plays his music too loud, I can't tell you how many times I've told him not to."

"S'okay, I should get to tracking down our pawnbroker, start getting some answers here," Greg told her. He looked in the direction of the atrocious noise. "I'll let you get things under control. Call you later?"

"Oh," Molly exclaimed, startled by his words. "Oh. Sure."

"Great," he said with a wide smile before turning to leave the lab.

Molly stood in the middle of the room, slightly dumbfounded. He'd never called her before. If he needed to talk to her, it was always text or email. She was going to have to talk to him. On the phone. Most likely making coherent sentences about things other than lab results.

If it weren't for the buzzing of the stir bar on glass, she would have been stuck in that spot for a long time, panicking.

oOo

The problem with attempting to track down sketchy pawnbrokers was that they were rarely where they were supposed to be, and they certainly didn't make investigations easy. When Greg and Donovan arrived at the shop, the man working behind the counter told them that Lionel Murphy was out of town on business, but he didn't know where. Greg went through the motions of asking the man where

he was on the night of Barts burglary, as well as the night of Linda Davi's murder. He asked if the man knew Donald Davi or anything about his whereabouts.

The man was either an amazing liar or the most unimpressed minimum wage employee Greg had ever met. He actually started checking his text messages while Donovan was questioning him. They left their business cards and instructions to call when Murphy returned, emphasizing that it would be a crime not to.

After a few hours of verifying alibis and looking into Lionel Murphy's business history, Greg was ready to go home.

He felt his nerves building as he went through his evening routine, only eating half of the fish and chips he'd brought home for dinner before he found he couldn't stomach any more. The beer, however, was easier to consume. It eased his nerves a bit and helped to convince him that promising to call Molly hadn't been the worst idea he'd ever had. The words had been out of his mouth before he'd had a chance to realize what he was saying.

He glanced at his watch once he'd settled on the sofa. Just after eight thirty. There was no backing out at that point.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hi," she said cheerfully.

"Hey, not too late to call, I hope?" He said, easing back into the cushions and propping his feet on the coffee table.

"Not at all," she answered. "How did everything go?"

"Not great, we've got to track the guy down," he told her. "Seems he's fond of leaving town with hardly a word."

"Sorry about that," Molly said, sounding disappointed.

"Yeah, well, that's how it goes sometimes," he sighed. He reached up to run a hand nervously through his hair, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "So, listen, I was wondering if you might be interested in dinner on Friday."

"Dinner?"

"Yeah, usually happens around six in the evening, but you know, I can be flexible about that. There's typically food involved. Sometimes drinks."

"Greg…"

He sighed, dropping the joke. He was quiet for a moment.

"Molly, are you at all confused about what I'm doing here?" he asked point blank.

"No," she replied softly. "No I don't think I am."

"Okay then," he said, swallowing his nerves. "If that's not agreeable to you, just let me know. I'll stop."

For several moments, she was quiet, and he thought his mind might explode with apprehension.

"It's not that," she said gently.

"It's not?"

"No."

"Right," he said with a nod. "So. Let's just leave it right there for now."

"You're fine with that?" she asked after a moment.

"If it's what you need, Molly, I'm fine with it," he assured her. "Talk to you soon, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He didn't sleep much that night, his adrenaline running too high from the conversation, replaying and second-guessing every word he'd said. Hell, he was second guessing a lot of things he'd said to her over the past few weeks.

When his alarm went off at six, he'd already been awake for a good half hour and barely needed to rub at his eyes before getting out of bed and preparing for his run.

The air outside was crisp, but less biting than it had been, warming as the days neared summer. His t-shirt and track pants were enough to stay comfortable; he even managed to work up a bit of a sweat by the time he'd gone full circle and made it back to his street. It wasn't until he was nearly to his building that he let up on his pace, slowing even more when he saw what was waiting for him.

Molly was sitting on the steps to his building, his white shirt in her hands.

"Hey," he said, slightly out of breath. He stopped just short of the stairs on the pavement, hands going to his hips.

"Hi," Molly said, smiling as she stood up.

"What're you doing here this early?"

"I have your shirt," she blurted out, wincing the second she said it. "I mean, that's not the reason I'm here, exactly. But it's been in my closet for days now and it's about time I returned it. I thought I might catch you before you left for work, so… your neighbor said you go on runs, so I waited."

She held out the shirt and he looked at it for a moment before reaching out to take it from her.

"Thanks," he said. "You didn't have to come all this way."

"I…wanted to," she said slowly, glancing down at the ground. Her fingers twined together and she took a deep breath. "I wanted to see _you_ , actually."

Greg studied her for several moments, contemplating what his next move should be. That was quite a confession. But there was still a lot about Molly that he didn't know, still a lot that he was unsure of. It was rocky ground for him. And there seemed to be a good deal she was unsure about as well, if their phone conversation was any sort of a hint.

"Molly, it's six forty-five in the morning. The shirt could've waited. What's going on?"

"I…" She stopped and smiled nervously, looking at him quickly before glancing away, her hand going to the railing and holding tightly as she leaned on it. "I dunno. Honestly, I just…"

"Look," he interrupted her gently, taking a step forward. "We've known each other for, what, six years now? Six years of drama and…bad timing. I'm…not in a big hurry if you need some time to figure out what you want."

"What I want?" she repeated, frowning.

Greg placed the shirt of the edge of the railing and leaned on it as well, glancing down the street as he sighed. He hated stepping around things gently; it always left his stomach in knots.

"I know I haven't been on your radar much since we've known each other," he said, finally looking into her eyes. "I've known that since that bloody awful Christmas party at Baker Street. But…well, you've been on mine. So, there it is."

"Since…" Molly shook her head and swallowed. "Since that party…I didn't even think you would be an option, I mean...you were married, for Christ's sake."

"I was, at that, wasn't I," Greg said with a heavy sigh.

"Not now, though. Obviously."

"No, and you're not engaged."

"I'm really not."

He looked down at her, considering. Was he so rusty at this that he couldn't figure out what she wanted, what she was trying to say? Or was it that he really liked her? Really, really liked her. More than he'd liked anyone since he first met Gail.

Molly was young compared to him. He felt his age, sometimes, next to her. But by the same token, she had the ability to make him feel like a man still worthy of being desired.

He felt himself take a tentative step forward, his body leaning in just enough that the space between them ceased to be strictly friendly. Being on the step above him, Molly was practically eye-level. He saw her short, deep intake of breath and for a moment it looked as though she might step away, cementing the platonic distance between them. But she didn't.

His pulse was rapid and every muscle in his body seemed to be preparing for either sensory overload or absolute failure, but he managed to lift one hand and gently place it on her hip, his fingers pressing into her and pulling her closer. Molly looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted.

Lowering his head, Greg closed his eyes and pressed his lips against hers, firm, but chaste. Her lips were soft and warm and her mouth tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint toothpaste. It was the most delightful mouth he'd had the pleasure of kissing in years. Of course. He felt her hands go to his arms, smoothing up his skin and then over the fabric of his t-shirt until they gripped at his shoulders. Her small, gasping breath when he pulled away made him swallow hard, trying hard not to cross any lines they weren't ready for.

"I like you, Molly," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. "Quite a lot, actually."

"Oh," Molly breathed, her fingers tightening on his shoulders.

"And I don't know if you're looking…or wanting. But," he said, quietly, hopefully, as he stepped away from her. "If it suits you…I'm here."

"Oh," she repeated, softer this time.

Molly stared at him for a moment, her mouth closed but the corners turned up slightly. She nodded and glanced down, the delicate fingers of one hand placed lightly over her lips. He could hardly read her, except to know that she wasn't turning him down outright. That left a small balloon of optimism inside of him.

"I'll have a lot to do on this case over the next day or so," he said, his voice sounding rough and suggestive, even to him. "But Friday...if you're free."

"I'll, um," Molly started, clearing her throat. "I'll be sure to let you know."

"Good," Greg said with a smile, lifting his shirt from the railing and stepping up to her level. He was unable to stop himself from leaning down and dropping a small kiss to her cheek before speaking close to her ear. "Don't work too hard, Hooper."

"You either," she returned, her eyes lingering on him as she slipped down to the pavement.

He could spy a little grin on her face as she walked away towards the tube station and felt idiotically like a sixth form again, awaiting his first date.


	10. Alloy

The call from Murphy's employee that the pawnshop owner had returned from his little out of town excursion came late in the day on Thursday. Greg was informed that he came into the store briefly, dropped a few things off in his office, and then went home. The DI dispatched a few cops to keep an eye on things at the flat before he and Donovan had a chance to get there.

"Ready to make an arrest?" He asked the sergeant.

"I've been ready for weeks," she responded eagerly as she set her badge purposefully and rolled up her sleeves.

Dinner time was always a good time to approach a suspect. It caught them by surprise and they were usually too comfortable to consider that the cops might be at their door, made sluggish by calories and, often, liquor. Donovan rapped loudly on the door to the flat, looking all too pleased to be doing her job that night.

Lionel Murphy, on the other hand, looked about ready to murder whoever was interrupting the match he was watching on telly when he opened the door.

"The fuck do you want?" he growled.

Greg and Donovan both flashed their badges.

"Lionel Murphy?" Donovan confirmed.

"Yeah, that's me," the man said, cracking his ring-decorated fingers as he sized them up.

"It's your lucky day, mate," Greg said, pulling his handcuffs from his utility belt. "Your fingerprints showed up on a murder weapon. You get a tour of the Met tonight."

"Bloody fuckin' 'ell," Murphy swore, not appearing at all surprised at the turn of events.

"Tear the place apart, chaps," Donovan told SOCO, leading the charge into the messy flat to hunt for evidence.

Being as late as it was,, by the time they had him booked into a jail cell, Greg decided to postpone the interrogation until the next day when he'd had a proper night's sleep and better coffee than the office had to offer.

He spared a moment that night to text Molly.

 _Got the bastard._

 _Well done you! Tell me all about it tomorrow?_

He'd nearly dropped his phone.

 _Absolutely. Let me know when you're done at Barts?_

 _Right-o_

It turned out that Murphy was as delightful to interrogate as he'd been to arrest.

"Look, it's what I told you," he said, looking all too relaxed in the hot seat. "I know people who bring me things. Things people like the Davis paid good money for."

"And where do those people get those things," Donovan demanded.

Murphy shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"China. Egypt. Don' matter much, so long as they're ancient," he explained. "That knife, I sold that to them weeks ago. If my fingerprints are on it, it's because they didn' clean it proper after I gave it to 'em."

Donovan's phone chimed and she checked the message, her eyes flicking up to meet Greg's. She showed him the screen. Greg took one look at the jewelry set that SOCO had recovered from Murphy's apartment and felt his blood start to boil. His eyes landed on Murphy.

"Have you ever been to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital?" he asked, his voice a low warning.

Murphy shrugged again, unconcerned with the tone.

"You want to tell me where you were on the night of the twelfth?" Greg said, leaning on fisted hands on the table between them.

"Was with my mate," Murphy said with a cheeky grin. "Loris. Numbers in my phone."

"Get him down here," Greg told Donovan.

Loris, as it happened, was not as confident as his friend. It probably had a great deal to do with the fact that he was a hired accountant and not an antiquities dealer. Donovan had him scared witless in twenty minutes. He'd gone with Murphy to Barts, thinking they were simply collecting money for a financed item. "Acting as legal witness," he'd explained helplessly. Before he knew it, he was lookout as Murphy broke into the morgue and returned with the jewelry.

"Bad news," she announced as she walked back into Murphy's room. "Your _mate_ just ratted you out."

The man turned red and his smug grin turned into a grimace of anger.

"They owed me, alright?" he snarled. "Those stuck up twats owed me for services rendered. That necklace was worth a fortune. Wasn' doing her any good any more, was it? But I didn' fuckin' _kill_ her."

"How did you know where to collect?" Greg questioned forcefully.

"I saw the news. Reporter was standin' right outside the hospital."

"You certainly had this all neatly planned out, didn't you?" Greg said, shoving the picture of the knife towards Murphy and pointing at it. "Sell a few artifacts for thousands of pounds, then steal them right back to sell them all over again? Did you send someone in to kill Linda Davi since you couldn't manage it yourself? Is that what happened?"

"No!" Murphy cried, looking truly offended. "I make a few pounds with the black market, alright? That's all. I don' deal with murder!"

The interrogations with Murphy and Loris went on for hours. Their whereabouts on the night of the murder were confirmed (Murphy's on CCTV as the security footage from the pawnshop and his employee supported). Neither claimed to know anything about the abduction of Linda Davi's body nor what had become of Donald.

Greg saw the end result of the current investigation closing in on him by the late afternoon, but he was reluctant to face the facts until Donovan said the actual words.

"Gone cold, hasn't it?" she said as they watched Murphy being led back to his jail cell.

He licked his lips and stared tiredly down the hall. Clocking out early suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea.

oOo

For the first time in a long time, Molly put more than five minutes of thought into her outfit as she got ready in the morning.

Dark plum skirt that fell just to her knees. Dark grey cotton blouse. Sensible flats.

She was on the early shift and grateful for it - less likely that anyone would comment on her wardrobe decisions. It wasn't unusual for her to wear a skirt, but the lab coat hid everything else until the end of the day. As four o'clock neared, her nerves began to increase, making her jittery and anxious. She started questioning her idea to surprise Greg at work, meeting him in person to let him know...to say that dinner would be wonderful.

After hanging her lab coat in her locker, she loosened her hair gently from the tightness of the ponytail, no longer needing the rigidity that the sterile work environment required. Aiming for a softer look.

She was a little surprised to arrive at the Met and discover Greg's office dark and empty.

"Left early," Donovan said, appearing out of nowhere and leaning against a nearby desk with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Did he?" Molly said.

"Yeah," the sergeant confirmed. "Not a spectacular day. Left in sort of a mood."

"I thought you made an arrest," Molly said, wondering what could have happened between his texts the night before and that afternoon.

"We did. He can tell you more about it," Sally said with small smile. "If I recall, I think he said something about St. George's Tavern. If you're interested."

oOo

At a quarter to five, the Tavern wasn't terribly crowded; Greg was able to order his splash of Laphroaig eighteen year and set up a solo billiard game without any competition. He barely touched his drink as he rolled up his sleeves and mindlessly tapped the balls around the table, mostly trying to distract himself from the failed murder investigation. And the silent mobile in his pocket. He left it on ring and vibrate to make sure he wouldn't miss any notifications, but so far had been left wanting.

Ten minutes later, the door to the pub opened and his heart stopped.

Molly, looking utterly lovely, paused just inside the entrance and looked around. Somewhat stupefied by the fact that she was actually there, he could do little more than stand and wait for her head to turn in his direction. She smiled when her eyes found his and immediately walked towards him.

"I went to the Yard," she told him, pausing at the corner of the pool table and letting her hands rest on the smoothed wooden edges. "They said you might be here. Trying to unwind?"

"A bit, yeah," he confessed, spinning the cue in his hand. "Day didn't go so well. We got our jewel thief, but uh, everything else hit a dead end. Just trying to forget about it until Monday."

Molly looked at him sympathetically, then glanced at the billiard table. She gestured to the extra set of cues lining the wall.

"Mind if I join you, then?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said, feeling a warm sort of anxiousness spread through his chest as she set her purse down and took up a cue.

Molly sized up the table, picking her shot. She leaned over the edge of the table and placed the cue on the edge of her fingers, giving it a few experimental thrusts before smacking the end of it into the cue ball. The white ball bounced smartly off the edge of the table and hit the solid four, sending it into the corner pocket.

Greg didn't think he'd ever been more turned on in his life.

"Christ, Hooper," he said, laughing a bit. "Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

Molly laughed, placing the end of the cue on the ground and leaning against it.

"My dad owned a pub," she told him. "I've been playing since I was seven."

He watched her take her next shot, sinking another billiard ball like it was nothing.

"And your mum?" he asked casually, licking his lips. "What did she do?"

Molly's lips quirked when she looked at him.

"Are you trying to get to know me, Detective Inspector?" she asked teasingly.

"Nah, no," he returned quickly, making a face as he reached for his drink. "Not at all. Just habit after twenty-five years of investigating crimes – asking questions."

It was Molly's turn to make a face.

"Glad conversation with me reminds you of dealing with the criminal elements," she said with a laugh, lining up another shot. "Very inspiring, I'm sure."

She missed.

He took a drink from the tumbler, glad for the melting ice that had diluted and cooled the liquor. _Not the only thing you inspire_ , he thought to himself.

"So," he said instead, trying to decide which ball to go after. "Your mum?"

"She was a nurse."

"Impressive."

Molly shrugged.

"She left when I was ten," she told him without emotion. "She and my dad married young. I think she felt cheated out of her youth."

"I'm sorry," he offered, not sure what to say.

"Sometimes I think it was better without her," Molly said, her eyes focused on something far away. "Dad and I got along fine. She came to the funeral, and I send her Christmas and birthday cards every year because I can't bring myself not to. But other than that, we don't talk. Dad raised me. He was everything."

"He sounds like a great man."

"He was," Molly said with a genuine smile.

He could really get used to seeing that smile every day.

oOo

Molly won two games of pool and found herself divulging things about herself and her life that she normally saved for the fifth or sixth date. When she had already known the person for the better part of six years, it seemed silly to try to play coy with information; particularly when the person was a cop and used to asking the right questions to get people to open up. She felt safe with Greg, though, and he offered just as much in the way of personal anecdotes.

When a group of uni students began to hover around the pool table, she and Greg gave up the game and found an empty booth to settle into, slightly tucked away from the crowded bar.

"Not to sound cliché, but, do you come here often?" Molly asked, looking around at the decoration of the tavern.

Greg gave her a lopsided smile, leaning back against the back of the booth and stretching his hand out to fiddle with his glass.

"Few nights a month, more if there's a match on," he told her. "Haven't ever seen you, though. First time?"

"Been once or twice, but not my usual haunt."

At that moment, a waitress came over and stopped at their table, barely looking at Molly as she pulled out a notepad and asked for her order.

"What's your choice?" Greg asked.

"Um, London dry and tonic with a slice of lime, please," Molly said.

The waitress nodded and jotted it down. Before she could leave, Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting a tenner and handing it over.

"On me," he said, smiling at Molly.

"Thanks, that's sweet of you," she said.

"My pleasure," he said, taking a sip of his whiskey. Molly nodded at the glass.

"Not your usual, is it? Usually a pint, if I remember correctly from the wedding?"

Greg laughed wryly and shook his head, dropping the glass onto the table.

"Huh, the wedding," he said, sucking in a breath. "Not my finest hour. I don't typically mix drinking and work, wasn't in top form that day."

"I dunno," Molly said with a sly smile, tipping her head to the side. "I thought your dwarf theory wasn't half bad. It was better than…well, better than some others."

Greg looked at her for a moment and she glanced away, suddenly self-conscious. She rarely talked about Tom anymore. Their breakup had been quick and mostly painless, but she'd been too embarrassed from the broken engagement to really discuss it with anyone she knew. It was better to just not mention the relationship at all.

Their waitress chose that moment to return, plunking the drink down in front of Molly on a napkin square. She quickly wrapped one hand around the cold, wet glass and lifted it to her lips for a drink.

"That was a pretty weird day, though, wasn't it?" she said, trying to pick up the conversation.

"Nothing like a wedding, is there?" he agreed. "Get all dressed up just to arrest someone for murder."

"Not that I've been to many weddings, but I have a feeling that's not typical," Molly laughed, shrugging a little. "Still...I don't know why I spent so much money on that stupid dress. I matched the walls, did you notice? I matched the bloody walls!"

"Nah, I didn't notice that," Greg said, his expression sobering gently as her eyes met his. "I…the only thing I noticed was how beautiful you looked."

Molly felt heat creep into her neck as he stared at her, his lips parted and his eyes darting back and forth between hers.

"You always do, Molly," he went on softly. Not exactly a liquor confession, but the two fingers of whiskey had emboldened him. "You always look so unbelievably beautiful."

Not knowing what else to do, Molly pulled her shoulders up and looked down at her hands folded on the table.

"Thanks," she said shyly. "It's been a while since anyone's told me that."

"You should hear it every day," he said emphatically. "So beautiful. And smart. Christ, you're smart. I don't know why I ever thought I even…had a chance…"

Molly's mouth dropped open slightly as she took in the way he looked at her. His face was so open, showing every ache and wound that encompassed how he had felt for her over the years, feelings she had been completely unaware of until recently. He was such a good man – kind, sincere, dedicated, brave.

It took her seconds to make up her mind, scooting over on the bench and reaching a hand up to place along his jaw as she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his. She felt him start before he gripped her waist, quickly opening his mouth under hers. His tongue slid smoothly along hers, tasting like whiskey and oh dear god, sending a lightening bolt of energy down her spine and right to her center. She suddenly wanted more of him, wanted to feel his fingers under her shirt instead of pressing on top of it. They were strong hands, hands of a man who had done his fair share of manual labor in his life, and that was, inexplicably, the sexiest thought to her.

He must have remembered that they were in public (she was perfectly willing to forget that detail for the moment) and broke the kiss reluctantly, pulling back to look at her again as they caught their breath.

"Was that…?" he started to ask, trailing off with uncertainty.

"Really good," Molly assured him.

"Yeah?"

"Really, really bloody good," she said, licking her lips slightly. She glanced down at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. The feeling of him close to her was unbelievably pleasant. "Are you drunk?"

"Not even close," he answered.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Molly whispered, her heart in her throat.

"Yeah," Greg breathed, sliding out of the booth and taking her hand to lead her out of the pub.


	11. In Situ

**NSFW chapter**

* * *

It was to Greg's credit that he didn't speed at all on the drive to his flat in Peckham. Molly wouldn't have blamed him; she felt more than a little antsy herself. They kept up a subdued, superficial conversation as he drove, awkwardly acting as though they weren't about to go back to his place and rip each other's clothes off. At least that was the general plan she had. She had every reason to suspect it was his as well.

He held the door to the building open for her and she hovered in the foyer as she waited for him to take the lead. He took her hand and smiled easily, guiding her up the stairs.

"Welcome to chez Lestrade," he joked as he unlocked the door, opening it onto a lovely, open flat.

A very modern kitchen and a simple lounge took up the majority of the living space. He had a large, brown leather couch that faced a huge entertainment center holding a nice television, some knick knacks and books. The whole place looked like him - comfortable, practical, with an edge of fashion.

She was broken out of her examination of his home by the touch of his hand on her back.

"You can put your things down, if you want," he offered, gesturing to the small breakfast table that sat against the wall of the kitchen.

"Thanks," Molly said, doing as he suggested and placing her purse on the table.

"So," Greg said, stepping closer to her. "Official tour. This is the kitchen. Lounge. Telly with over three hundred channels in case you get bored. And," he said, taking her hand again and tugging her towards the door by the couch. "The bedroom."

"Ah," Molly said as he settled his back against the doorframe. She peaked inside, her hand tightening on his. "Good. Every flat should have one. Glad you do."

"Yeah?"

Molly bit back a grin at the goofy, suggestive look on his face. Her heart was pounding and she was so off balance he could have tipped her over with a sigh, but she managed to let the humor into the moment.

"Well, I'm glad to know one of the Yard's finest wasn't swindled by a bad lease," she said with a smile, stepping a little closer.

"Not a chance, Hooper," Greg said huskily, his arms finally wrapping around her and pulling her to him, his mouth meeting hers.

For the first time, she felt his whole body flush against hers, the solidness of him - muscle most everywhere, a little bit of softness in areas that he had let go. And heat. The desire in his body emanating against her, leaving no question in her mind as to his interest.

Within a minute he had his fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand finding its way under her blouse as he stepped forward and crowded her against the open door, giving her no escape as he pressed into her. She was thrilled to let him, completely under the spell of his lips, his hands, everything about him.

Just when she was starting to benefit from his hips pushing intently against hers, he pulled away, grinning in a way that was all too like her fantasies about him.

"Back in a tick," he said, sliding his hands off of her and stepping away towards, what she assumed, was the bathroom.

It gave her another moment to stop, catch her breath, and look around. His place was nice. An air of masculinity touched everything, from the brown leather couch to the forest green duvet on his bed, the bamboo shades and the light scent of citrus and sandalwood. It felt welcoming. Honestly, it felt like a place she could see herself waking up most days. Her heart started to beat rapidly as she considered that idea.

Greg came back into the room, a small, square foil packet in his hand. It made her heart beat even faster.

"You look nervous," he observed quietly.

"I am, a little," she answered, taking a deep breath. How could she explain that her mind had just wrapped itself around the fact that she was about to sleep with Greg Lestrade and change everything in her life forever? That she was thinking about the future and that suddenly, astonishingly, all she could see was him?

"Me too," he confessed, slowly closing the distance between them. He tossed the foil packet onto the floor next the bed. "Look, we don't have to rush things. If you want to wait, I'll wait. I'll do whatever you want, Molly."

"No," she assured him, reaching out to take his hands and pull him close. "No, I don't want to wait anymore."

 _Not for this_ , her mind added. _Not when I've been waiting my entire life._

He backed her towards the bed until she felt the mattress at her knees, immediately sitting and expecting him to follow her. To her surprise, Greg knelt in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her face as he kissed her deeply. His mouth drifted down to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, his hands sliding down her arms as he continued descending down her body. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from swearing when his mouth ghosted over her breast through the thin material of her shirt and bra.

Greg leaned back on his heels, his expression positively lustful as he looked at her, his hands now traveling down her legs all the way to her feet. With precision and delicacy, he removed her shoes one at a time, tossing them over his shoulders. Leaning forward again, he gently grasped her right leg and kissed the inside of her knee, sending shivers straight through to her center. Molly leaned back on her elbows and gripped the duvet below her, her breath coming in short bursts while he kissed his way up her thigh, hands dipping below her skirt to find the edges of her knickers. He wasted no time in removing that particular garment, to her complete delight, hands smoothing back up her thighs and rucking her skirt up until she was totally bared to him. He placed one final kiss on the inside of her thigh, causing her muscle to quiver, and looked up at her with those beautiful brown eyes of his, silently asking her permission. She nodded, maybe too eagerly, but she didn't care.

She slowly melted down on the mattress as he kissed the skin around the dusting of closely cropped hair, experimentally letting his tongue dart out to tease the folds of skin that were quickly becoming soaked with her desire. His hands slipped under her thighs and held tightly to her hips, hardly letting her squirm against him, however much his ministrations encouraged that reaction.

Oh, he was going to drive her mad…

Molly's eyes practically rolled back in her head when his mouth finally landed on her clit, his tongue doing amazing things that had her struggling not to clamp his head between her thighs. She supposed that was the advantage of being with an older, more experienced man – plenty of practice on his part. And she was reaping the rewards.

Her mental analysis of his talent fell to the wayside when he slid one, then two fingers inside of her, matching his rhythm to the roll of her hips and gasping breaths and moans. Her grip on his duvet turned white-knuckled as her orgasm started to course through her, leaving her boneless and breathless.

"Oh my God…" she breathed, finally opening her eyes when she felt him kiss the inside of her thigh before lifting himself onto the bed directly over her.

"Liked that?" he asked, a hint of pride in his voice.

"'Like' is an understatement," she told him happily, leaving out the fact that it was the first orgasm she'd experienced in almost a year that was produced by another person. And it had been utterly phenomenal.

"I can't tell you how many times I've imagined doing that," he murmured, wasting no time and dropping his mouth to her neck, peppering her skin with nips and kisses.

Molly obligingly turned her head, her hands gripping his firm biceps as he held himself above her. She let it sink in that he'd fantasized about her. It all set her head spinning.

In an effort to make things easier on him, she began to budge up on the bed towards the pillows, taking the opportunity to start working at the buttons on his shirt. It was a whirl of clothing being removed as soon as she had the shirt unbuttoned, with her hands and his mouth on every inch of skin as soon as it was revealed.

With everything gone except for his pants, she tugged at the elastic, lowering the fabric and freeing the erection that had been pressing into her thigh. Her breath caught in her chest. He was glorious. From head to toe, he was a magnificent specimen of a man – strong, tan, and very, very well proportioned. With a bit of maneuvering, he finished the task of undressing. Sitting back for a moment, he unzipped her skirt and slowly slid his hands under her bum, encouraging her to lift her hips. Molly did so, licking her lips and watching him as he removed the last garment from her body. She shivered a bit, feeling quite exposed, and watched him stare at her with a look of pure amazement. She hadn't been playing coy at the tavern - it had been a while since anyone had told her she looked beautiful, let alone stared at her in the way he was currently doing. She wasn't prepared for the way it made her feel, for the way any of it made her feel - like she never wanted anyone but him to gaze at her in that way.

After a moment, he leaned over the edge of the bed and retrieved the condom, looking at her in surprise when she leaned up and took it out of his hand.

"Let me?" she murmured.

He swallowed heavily, his hands dropping to her waist as she tore open the package. With a tentative touch, Molly wrapped her fingers around him, delicately running them over the hot, smooth skin. Greg moaned, his eyes droping shut and his head lolling forward.

"Molly...please," he rasped after a minute of her experimental strokes.

She slid the condom onto him and was immediately enveloped in his arms, his mouth hungrily seeking hers as he pushed her back onto the mattress. Her legs wrapped around his thighs and she felt him buck against her, his hardened length grinding against her and setting her nerves on fire.

Greg positioned himself at her entrance and she practically shivered at the feeling, running her hands over the smooth skin of his lower back. He paused there, adjusting his arms so that he very nearly cradled her. Lowering his forehead to hers, he let out a tense breath.

"I've wanted this for a long time, Molly," he murmured, his prick pulsing at the very edge of her sex. "Wanted you…"

"I know," she whispered back. "I've wanted you too, Greg."

He looked her in the eye for a moment before dipping his head and claiming her mouth, kissing her deeply as he pushed into her. Molly gasped into his mouth as he stretched her, her fingers digging into his back and her hips tilting up to better accommodate his size.

"Oh, fuck, Molly," he groaned, breaking away from her mouth and burying his face into the curve of her neck. One hand snaked under her lower back and pulled her up towards him, his hand grasping the flesh of her hip. "You feel so good."

He pulled out slightly and pushed back into her, grinding into her pelvic bone and making her whimper in pleasure. It felt amazing.

"Ohh, Greg, oh yes," she mewled, sliding her hands up his back and burying her fingers in his hair.

He repeated the movement, grunting a little when her muscles fluttered in response. Tightening his hold on her back, Greg began to thrust in earnest, speeding up and slowing down and seeming to take note of every moan and arch of her body in answer to him. The addition of his lips to her neck sent her reeling close to another climax, murmuring encouragement of everything he was doing.

She yelped in surprise when Greg gripped her tight and flipped them, settling her above him. His hands smoothed over her thighs and up to her hips, pulling at her to encourage her to move. Leaning forward so that her hands were on either side of his head and her breasts hung tantalizingly close to his face, she slowly lifted her hips until he was barely inside her, then sank back onto him in one swift motion. His eyes practically rolled back in his head and he groaned a deep, "Oh, God, yes," his fingers tightening on her hips. Unable to keep a smile off her face, she repeated the movement, starting a steady rhythm that he obviously approved of. His eyes opened and he grinned wolfishly up at her.

She knew it was a surprise to him. It was a surprise to almost every man she'd ever been with that she was good in bed. Not just satisfying to be with, mind, but actually talented. Her quiet demeanor tended to lead them to believe that she would enjoy lying there, having things done to her and very impressed with their performances. None of them really expected her to give pleasure as well as she received it. And lucky Greg still had her oral skills to look forward to.

She rode him, teased him with varying rhythms for a while, enjoying the look on his face and the way he was trying not to take over the pace with his own hips. She leaned back and rested her hands on the tops of his thighs; the change of position seated him deep inside her, sending flutters through her muscles.

"So bloody beautiful," he said huskily, running his hands up her stomach and to her breasts, massaging and teasing at her flesh.

It was her turn to moan, her head tipping back and her eyes closing as he brought one hand down between them, his thumb rubbing firm circles on her clit and bringing her close again. Only when her hand strayed behind her, her fingers landing lightly on his bollocks and gently squeezing, did he seem to start to lose control. He practically growled, surging up off the mattress and wrapping an arm around her to flip them again. His thrusts became deep and hard, grinding against her core each time until she was gasping, her orgasm sweeping through her entire body. He didn't stop and it felt like it lasted for hours until he finally grunted and groaned her name, his cock thickening and pulsing his release deep inside of her.

Minutes later, Greg pushed himself off of her, collapsing onto his back. He was breathing heavily, obviously as stunned and winded as she was, staring at the ceiling.

"Wow," he exhaled loudly.

"Yeah," she agreed, enjoying the feel of the cool air on her heated skin. She smiled. "Well we're doing _that_ again."

He turned his head and looked at her, a lopsided grin appearing on his face.

"Yeah?" he asked, running a hand through his completely disheveled silver hair.

"Oh yeah," Molly said with a nod and a grin.

"Right then," he said, rolling back over her and assaulting her neck with kisses. Molly let out a surprised yelp and laughed.

"I didn't mean right this moment!" she gasped, though her efforts to stop him were half-hearted. "I mean, if you want… but I just meant…"

"I know what you meant," Greg said, smiling down at her. "And I think I'd like that."

"So would I," Molly murmured.

"Brilliant."

He kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss. They were beginning to learn what to do with their mouths to make the other person gasp, make them moan, and she thought she might float away with the sensations she was feeling. The attention he showed her, the way he took care with her...it was surreal.

"I think," he said between kisses. "I promised you dinner tonight."

"I do believe you are correct," she agreed, wrapping her arms around him and holding him to her. "But that requires clothing. A quandary, you see."

"A quandary indeed," Greg replied, kissing her on the nose before slipping out of her arms and reaching over the end of the bed to extract his phone from his trouser pocket. "Unless we order in."

"Ah," Molly smiled. "A genius if I ever met one."

"Like Chinese?"

"Love it," she told him, sitting up and planting a kiss on his shoulder before standing up with the intention to use his loo. "Anything's fine."

Before she could step away, he caught her wrist in his hand and pulled her back, settling her between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands went to his chest and she could feel her heart start to flutter again. He was really doing a number on her, and she didn't mind one bit. The excitement of it was welcome.

Wrapping one hand around the back of her neck, Greg pulled her in for a searing kiss.

"What was that for?" she asked shyly when the kiss broke.

"For...being here," he said simply, brushing a few strands of mussed hair out of her face.

Words failed her. All she could do was kiss him back, hoping it was enough.

She grabbed his shirt on her way to the loo, knowing she would be swimming in it, but it would be a good deal more comfortable than her own clothes after the sex they'd just had. When she emerged from the loo, he'd cleaned himself up, donned his pants, and was ordering what sounded like an absurd amount of food for two people.

"Watched a good rugby match lately?" he asked her when he'd ended the call.

"Can't say that I have."

"Well then," Greg said with a grin, reaching for her hand and kissing it as he led her to the sprawling couch. "I'd say that's in order. Something about watching a match after a good shag…oi!"

Molly smirked, confident that her elbow in his ribs hadn't done any real damage. His laugh and the fact that he simply pulled her closer was confirmation of that.

"It was, though," she said after they'd settled on the couch, a large knit blanket covering them.

"Was what?"

"A good shag. _Great_ shag."

He looked down at her and she could see him visibly puff up with pride.

"Might not need to watch the match at this rate," he joked, making to toss the remote away.

"No!" Molly cried, laughing and reaching for the device before curling into his side. "I want to see what all the fuss is about…"


	12. Locus

There wasn't much that Greg needed in life to be happy. Resolved cases. A good night's sleep. A decent pint at the end of the day.

But to be content, to be almost blissfully satisfied? A woman in his arms, enjoying a ripping match on the telly – well that did it. The fact that it was Molly Hooper, something he had increasingly doubted would ever happen, made it exponentially better. It was a little prosaic to think of how perfect being with her was, how much it surpassed everything he'd ever hoped for.

His divorce had left him struggling to understand many things, the most daunting of which had been how he was supposed to start over again in his late forties. That wasn't something he'd ever planned on needing to do. A part of him had become resigned to the routine of a bachelor life, with half-mad consulting detectives and pub owners as his main relationships.

But there was Molly, sitting on his couch with her head resting on his shoulder and shouting at Gloucester in between bites of pork dumpling and spring rolls.

To his recollection, no one had ever looked more beautiful after sex. With her long hair slightly mussed and her skin tinged pink, she looked magnificent; particularly in his shirt, which was far too big for her but suited her anyway. He had to stop himself from staring, multiple times, sure that it would make her uncomfortable. He did, however, allow his arm to remain firmly wrapped around her, his fingers bunching up the shirt and gently stroking the smooth skin of her waist.

It wasn't long before the food was consumed and the match had become background noise. Molly's arm stretched across his stomach and her lips ghosting over his shoulder and against his neck had him fairly distracted; he decided she was far more interesting at the moment and turned the telly off before turning and snogging her into the back of the sofa. She immediately wrapped her arms around him, her delicate hands turning strong as she pulled him close. Greg let out a low groan of appreciation for her, one hand sliding down her bare thigh and hitching her leg over his hip. He could feel himself hardening as the heat from between her legs was exposed, easily penetrating his pants.

After a few minutes of heavy snogging that bordered on rutting, Molly broke away from him and slipped deftly out of his arms. He was confused for a moment before she stood purposefully in front of him, her knee nudging his apart. Greg watched in stunned silence as she dropped to the ground, her fingers tucking into the elastic of his pants and dragging them from his hips, letting his erection free. He swallowed heavily as he realized what she was doing.

And, oh God, was she ever doing that. The strangled noise that came out of his throat as her warm mouth enveloped him was shameful, and he didn't care in the least. It was hard to care about the noises he was making when she was swirling her tongue over the head of his cock and her lips were sliding along his shaft, building a fire in his groin that was threatening to turn into an inferno. He wasn't sure when his fingers had anchored into her hair, but she didn't seem to mind, allowing him to use the silky strands to guide her pace, his hips rocking gently towards her. When he felt the sensations rising to dangerous levels, he reached for her shoulders and pulled her away.

"Molly, oh, Christ, Molly," he gasped, looking down into her smirking face. He grinned, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss her, hard. "That was _amazing_...but I want to be inside of you, darling."

"Well then," Molly said as she stood up, running her hands through his hair. "You wait right there."

Greg collapsed back into the cushions as he watched her saunter towards the bathroom. How the hell had this all happened? How had he gotten this lucky? A few weeks before, he had been prepared to step aside and let the hope of being with her fade away in his mind until the idea was a shadow.

She had stepped out of the fading fantasy, though, warm and real and decidedly ready to embark on whatever journey this was with him. And she was apparently going to start by driving him mad with how gorgeous she could look half-naked in his flat, walking towards him with a sultry look and an unwrapped condom held between her fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath when she immediately climbed into his lap, her mouth seeking his as her hands slipped the condom over his erection. His overly sensitive skin tingled under her touch and he shuddered, eager to slide his hands under the shirt and grip her hips.

In one swift movement, Molly took ahold of his cock and lifted herself up, positioning him at her entrance and sinking down. The sudden feeling was almost too much and he broke away from her kiss, wrapping his arms around her and clamping his mouth onto the soft skin of the curve of her neck to keep from groaning too loudly. The push of his hips prompted her into a steady rhythm as she moved above him, the warm clench of her muscles forcing him to fight against the desire to increase his pace. She smelled of the soft, floral scent of perfume and the tart aroma of sex - absolutely irresistible.

Leaning back against the sofa once more, Greg began unbuttoning her shirt, pushing the fabric aside and enjoying the perfect view of her breasts. It was her smile, the sight of her bobbing up and down on him while looking so gorgeous that sent him spiraling towards the edge, almost losing control.

"God, Molly, you're going to drive me insane," he growled, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pulling her closer, his mouth landing on one breast.

He sucked and teased her nipple until she was whimpering, her grinding rhythm becoming erratic.

"Oh, Greg, fuck," she bit out, drawing the last word out on a low moan.

He groaned again, never having heard her swear before, let alone so strongly. Unable to hold back any longer, he reached for her arms, sliding his hands along her limbs until they landed on her wrists, pulling her hands behind his head. Molly lurched forward with the movement, bracing herself on the back of the sofa as he held her in place and began thrusting in earnest. He captured her mouth, swallowing her cries of pleasure as she finally climaxed, her muscles spasming violently around him. A few artless thrusts later and he was groaning her name into her shoulder and spilling himself inside of her, overcome by the events of the evening and the sheer bliss of being with Molly.

When her muscles stopped quivering, she lifted herself off of him and settled back on his thighs, her head dropping to the crook of his neck as she recovered. Greg took a few deep breaths, releasing her wrists and running his hands soothingly over her back, brushing her sweat-dampened hair with his fingers.

He wanted to be able to hold her like that every day; he refrained from saying so, thinking that it would be better to wait until they'd at least made it through a whole day of… dating? Seeing each other? It didn't much matter what they labeled it, as long as he got to be with her.

Molly kissed his neck gently and lightly ran her fingers over the dusting of hair on his chest.

"Greg?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you have any plans for what you wanted to do tomorrow?"

"You," he said silkily, smiling when he felt her chuckle. "Other than that…no plans."

"I'll have to feed my cat eventually," she said, leaning up and gazing down at him. "You're welcome to come back to mine, though."

"And what, exactly, do you plan to do there?" he asked her slowly, running his hands over the curve of her bum.

Molly cocked her head, her hair spilling to one side.

"You," she mimicked him with a smile.

"Bloody fantastic," Greg laughed, tightening his grip on her and hoisting her up as he stood from the sofa.

Molly wrapped her legs around his waist as he walked them towards the shower, feeling that it was only fair to offer her the opportunity to clean up since he'd been responsible for getting them dirty in the first place…

oOo

He woke slowly the next morning, slightly disoriented by the glow of sunlight making its way through his bamboo shades. He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken after the sun had risen. It felt glorious. Of course, part of that feeling could've been the morning-after sensations associated with two rounds of sex and a decent amount of snogging in the shower before collapsing into bed with a woman he was crazy about. That generally made anyone wake up in a good mood.

Scrubbing a hand over his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes, Greg rolled gently to his side. Molly was still sleeping soundly, partially turned away from him and snoring softly. The soft morning light made her skin and hair appear golden and warm. It took a large dose of self control not to lean over and kiss her awake, much as he wanted to. She was too peaceful to disturb. Instead, he slowly climbed out of bed and padded to bathroom.

Minutes later, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, he quietly set about making coffee and setting things out for breakfast in the kitchen. He wasn't exactly sure how she took her coffee, but if memory served, he figured he was safe with sugar and a splash of milk. She was just waking up when he strolled in through the bedroom door, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. The smile she gave him could have knocked him off his feet.

He swallowed, suddenly unsure of himself.

"Morning," she said, her voice low and raspy with sleep.

"Morning," he replied, his feet finding the ability to walk again and making his way towards the bed.

The mattress dipped a bit as he sat down opposite her, holding the coffee out. She held the sheet to her chest and sat up against the pillows, taking the cup with a smile.

"Thanks, it's wonderful," Molly said gratefully, taking a large gulp.

"So," Greg said after a few moments of silence.

"So," Molly repeated, settling the cup in her lap and looking down into the liquid. "Last night happened."

"It certainly did," he agreed with a raise of his eyebrows. He watched a smile creep onto her face as she contemplated the thread pattern in his sheets and hoped that it was a good sign. Everything he'd liked about her before had been amplified a hundred times in the previous twenty-four hours and there was no going back for him. He was done for; it all lay in her hands. "Everything about that...still okay with you?"

"Yeah," she responded immediately, her eyes drifting up almost shyly to meet his. "Yeah. Definitely."

"Good," he said, smiling broadly at her. "That's really good, because otherwise breakfast was going to be obscenely awkward."

Molly laughed and placed her cup on the nightstand, scooting across the bed to take his face in her hands and kiss him.

"And what is on the menu this morning, Detective?" she asked, gently threading her fingers through his hair and activating nerves he'd forgotten he had.

"Might not be food, at this rate," he murmured, trying to balance the cup of coffee with one hand while the other wrapped around her bare torso.

"Pretty sure it's your fault I have an appetite after last night," she giggled as his lips found the sensitive spot on her neck.

"That's fair," he relented with a grin, placing one final kiss to her shoulder before pulling back. "Eggs and sausage?"

"Crumpets and jam, too?" she asked mischievously with a raise of her eyebrow.

"Better than that," he said, trying not to sound too proud of himself. "I can make crepes."

Molly's eyebrow raised in sincerity at that.

"Consider me charmed," she said.

"That was the goal," he admitted.

While Greg fried up a plateful of kippers and eggs, Molly perched on the kitchen counter and sipped her coffee, their conversation flirtatious and easy. He handed her a plate of breakfast to enjoy while he whipped up the crepe batter and set out lemon slices, sugar, and whipped cream that he miraculously had sitting in the back of his fridge. He hadn't been betting on her staying the night, or coming over at all for that matter, and his preparation for breakfast had been nil. Improvisation was at its finest that morning.

If he had been a slightly smarter man, maybe paid more attention to detail outside of the Yard, he would have foreseen where full, satisfied bellies and platefuls of sweet crepes and whipped cream would lead right there in his kitchen. It had been a while since he'd been so domestic with anyone, and even longer since the possibility of sex outside of the bedroom was even a realistic expectation. Molly sitting on his counter in a pair of his shorts and her grey blouse, licking whipped cream and sugar from her fingers, had him remembering that, oh yes, the entire flat could be explored that way.

She caught his eye with one finger still lingering between her lips, her expression changing quickly as she realized what he was thinking. Slowly, he moved in front of her and took the plate out of her hand, setting it on the counter. She watched his every move as pressed against her knees, reaching out to take her hand away from her mouth. He held her hand in both of his and brought her fingers to his lips, tentatively sucking a cream covered digit. When her eyelids fluttered and he heard her soft whimper, he knew he'd found yet another way to curl her toes. He couldn't say he wasn't proud of that.

Greg grinned slightly as he continued to languidly remove the remaining whipped cream from her fingers, stepping forward when her legs gradually parted and made way for him to press against her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pushing him forward insistently, and he was completely hard in seconds as he abandoned her fingers and captured her mouth. He grunted and groaned when her hand slipped down the front of his pants, his mind flashing back to the night before and the things she had done to him on the couch.

He forced himself to focus, gripping the hem of her blouse and pulling the garment over her head, lavishing as much attention on her breasts as she was giving his erection. When he was fairly certain he couldn't survive another moment, he hooked his fingers into the shorts she was wearing and tugged. Molly pulled her hand from his pants, holding the edge of the counter to balance herself as she tilted her hips up. The shorts were gone in a second and he yanked his pants down before pulling her to the edge of the counter.

"Is this… is it alright?" he asked gruffly as his bare cock throbbed against her entrance.

Molly nodded fiercely.

"IUD," she told him. "Totally clean."

"Same," he said hurriedly, claiming her mouth again and pushing forward, fighting back the urge to shout when her warm wetness enveloped him. "Ohhh my God," he moaned, thrusting roughly into her. "Molly...I'm not going to last long…"

"S'okay," she panted, her hands pressed into the small of his back. "Feels good. Amazing."

He needn't have worried about the warning. Between the angle and his mouth assaulting her neck and breasts, her muscles were clenching around him in minutes, hurtling him over the edge with her. He practically saw stars, his head buzzing as he pulsed inside of her, feeling the little flutters of aftershocks from her.

"You're going to spoil me," she murmured against his shoulder.

"Mm?"

"Food and amazing sex?" she said, pulling back to look at him. "Properly spoiled."

"Happy to do it," he told her, kissing her slowly before helping her down.

That night, as they lay in Molly's bed after an evening of chatting, telly, and amazing sex, as Molly so aptly phrased it, Greg couldn't help thinking about the last time he'd been in her flat. He stroked her back as she rested her head on his chest, contemplating the fact that he'd been ready to give up altogether that night. He'd admired her for so long and she'd seemed so unattainable. It had seemed pointless, then, to hope for a relationship with her.

How wrong he'd been.

"I like this," she murmured suddenly, her fingers tracing slow patterns on his chest. "A lot."

He felt a surge of happiness go through him and smiled.

"My pleasure," he said, kissing the top of her head.

Molly laughed, lifting herself up and turning to face him.

"That's been lovely, too," she said, glancing away for a moment before meeting his eyes. "But...but I mean, all of this. You...and me. Us."

Greg smiled at her gently, reaching out to run his fingers along the side of her face.

 _Us_.

God, that sounded wonderful coming from her.

"I like it, too, Molly," he said, pulling her close again and reveling in the feeling of her body against his. "Quite a lot."


	13. Debitage

If an entire weekend spent in the arms of a man who seemed determined to bring her every pleasure possible was not enough to convince Molly of Greg's intentions, the following two weeks certainly were. Dinners out at lovely restaurants, the cinema twice, walks in the park when the weather permitted, coffee delivered by hand when he knew she was working long shifts - she was being properly wooed. At dessert, he fed her bites of chocolate mousse, her favorite. His arm slung around her at the movies, his fingers tracing gentle circles on her shoulder. On more than one occasion she was late back to Barts because they'd become caught up under a secluded tree. He perfected the way she took her coffee, and she did the same for him.

They made love every night, sometimes feverishly, sometimes slowly, always searching for the right way, the best way to give each other pleasure.

It felt...really good. It had been so long since someone had bothered to do all these things for her, and she for them.

It didn't do to dwell on comparisons, but Greg was making it incredibly easy to blow her previous relationships out of the water. Tom had always been eager to please her, but in a sort of irritating way - the way that left her making the decisions anyway because he was always checking to see if she was amiable to what he was doing. Looking back, she realized that they had been totally unbalanced. She had dominated everything and he just scrambled to keep up.

Things with Greg were...so different. So very different.

He was confident. He made her confident, made her want to do everything possible to make him happy. Within the first week of their relationship, it was plain as day to Molly that she was falling in love with him. It should have frightened her a little bit more to be tumbling into those sorts of feelings so fast. If it had been some other man, some new acquaintance whom she was still getting to know, she might have worried; but she knew Greg. She knew so much about the excellent man that he was that the only shock she felt was about how long it had taken her to open her eyes and see what he had to offer.

She only hoped that she could be everything he deserved.

When a snarled murder-suicide involving a high-profile London barrister landed on Greg's desk, he apologized for days for being practically unavailable.

"It's fine," she assured him as they sat on a park bench during the lunch hour. "It's not as though you chose for it to happen."

"It's not just the barrister case," he sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees and drooping forward. "There's the Barmuks' case going to trial and I have to testify as the arresting officer. Sherlock is still rampaging on that one, and I…"

"You think he's right," she finished for him, gently.

Greg looked over at her.

"Of course he's right," he said, defeated. "He's right, and the law is wrong, but the law is going to win. If he had told me about his clients in the first place, none of it would have happened and they'd still be free."

"And you'd be privy to the knowledge that he was aiding the Barmuks," she added as a reminder, smoothing a hand along his back. "You'd be culpable if they were ever caught. Accessory to a crime."

"Wouldn't be the first time, with him. That goes for both of us."

Molly gave him a closed-mouth smile, understanding.

"He's just lucky his end of it was legal, and only just," Greg said. "Otherwise he'd be facing charges with them."

Molly thought on the situation for the hundredth time, worrying her bottom lip.

"It's just not fair," she said quietly. "All they wanted was their heritage back. People like the Davis know where those items are coming from, how they're acquired...and they take them anyway. Where's the justice in that?"

"I'd say someone felt the same about it," he agreed, his jaw tensing as he stared out at the park. "Decided to take justice into their own hands. Maybe not the Barmuks...but someone."

A moment later, his mobile began to ring.

"Chief Inspector," he told Molly regretfully.

"Go ahead," she encouraged, leaning over to kiss him briefly. "I need to be getting back to Barts anyway. I'll see you tonight."

It was in her bedroom that night as she lay with Greg's arm draped across her waist, the cool, early summer breeze drifting in through her window, that her mobile screen lit up the darkness. Not quite near sleep, she tilted her head carefully to glance at the screen, not wanting to disturb Greg. When she saw the name, she pursed her lips and relaxed back into the pillow. Greg continued to breathe evenly behind her. Not thirty seconds later, the screen was illuminated again. And then again. And again.

She felt a burning irritation settle into her chest.

After the fifth message, she snaked her hand out to the nightstand and grabbed the phone. Without looking at any of the messages, she typed a curt response.

 _Stop it_

Flipping the phone so that the screen faced down, Molly tried to settle and calm herself into sleep.

oOo

Days later, when the barrister case had been resolved and passed into the capable hands of the court and the Barmuks were able to negotiate a plea bargain, saving Greg from the stress of convicting testimony, Molly begged off of work early to visit him at the Yard. Coffee and pastries in hand, she made her way through the room of cubicles and ignored the curious looks as she tapped on his office door.

"I come bearing gifts," she said when he opened the door, lifting the items up.

"Right this way, then," he said with a wide smile, stepping aside to allow her entry. A few titters followed her in from the main floor and Greg poked his head outside. "Shut it," he commanded before closing the door on their gossip. "Sorry about that."

"Harmless," Molly told him with a shrug, placing the coffee and pastry bag on his desk.

"Unlike you," he said, sidling up to her and placing his hands on her hips. "Bringing me sweets in the middle of the day. And pastries. Dangerous."

Molly tried not to roll her eyes at the corny line. Her fingers found the lapels of his jacket and she

tugged, smirking up at him.

"Really?" she said with a raise of her eyebrow.

"Not my best work," he admitted. "I do better when I haven't been investigating a murder for a week."

"You're free then?" she asked hopefully.

"For the time being," he said, pulling her closer and placing his lips tenderly against her brow.

Molly was grateful that the blinds separating his office from the main floor were tightly shut at the moment. His lips on her face were innocent enough, but it wouldn't do to be seen by half of the Yard in the middle of the day. Especially since he seemed intent on moving his mouth towards hers.

"I'll be done here in two hours," he whispered against her ear. "Then I was thinking…my place? There's beer in the fridge and I can order whatever takeaway you like."

Molly hummed, enjoying the feel of his fingers tracing along the edge of her trousers, just teasing at the skin that lay below.

"I suppose I can wait that long," she murmured, tipping her head to the side to allow him better access as he started to trail soft kisses along her neck and jaw.

He reached up with one hand and laid it against the side of her head, turning her to face him and capturing her mouth with his. She whimpered happily, sinking into his embrace.

The door slamming open caused them both to jump.

"Lestrade, the details of this report don't match a single thing that I - "

Sherlock's words came to an abrupt halt as he looked up from the file he held, clearly having caught the very end of their intimate moment. Molly swallowed hard as she saw Sherlock's eyes narrow, glancing from her to Greg and back again. His face went rigid.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yeah, actually," Greg said, standing taller and casually shoving his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock stared at him for several long moments before snapping the file shut and tucking it under his arm.

"Fine," he said shortly. "I'll return later."

He'd barely turned to leave when Greg spoke up again, calling after him.

"Before five, Sherlock. I'm leaving on time today. We have plans," he said, nodding towards Molly.

Sherlock faltered ever so slightly, glancing at Molly quickly and then hurrying out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

There was silence for few awkward moments. She knew Sherlock was going to find out somehow, but that wasn't at all how she'd wanted it to go. She knew he wasn't interested in a real relationship with her, but she also understood that he could get possessive. For better or worse, they had a complicated past and they'd shared things that no one else knew about. It wasn't easy to navigate that sort of bond.

"Sorry for acting like a territorial prat," Greg said quietly.

"You didn't," she told him.

"No, I did," he said with a sigh, leaning against the edge of his desk. He ran a hand over his face, squinting his eyes shut and gesturing towards the door. "That took me by surprise. And it's… Sherlock bloody Holmes and for whatever reason I feel like I'm competing with him for you - "

"Greg," she interrupted firmly, stepping back over to him and grabbing his hand in hers. "You're not, okay? There is no competition. I happen to like _you_. Quite a lot, actually."

She felt relieved when she saw a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He pulled her closer, settling her between his thighs and wrapping his arms around her waist. It was a decidedly sensual move and she couldn't help the tightening between her own legs. She nuzzled her nose against his.

"Are we still on for dinner, then?" she asked.

"Yeah, of course," he replied, giving her a lingering kiss. "I'll pick you up after work."

oOo

For as determined as Sherlock had been to burst into Greg's office without invitation earlier in the day, he was surprisingly late - and polite - on his return.

Greg was just about to give up on waiting, and had already shut his computer down and put everything away when there was a knock at the door. He stood up from his chair and walked around to the front of his desk.

"Yeah, c'mon in," he said.

Sherlock entered, all business, his eyes focused beyond Greg. Any other time, he would have mistaken the behavior for disinterest.

"Your official statement to the court," Sherlock began, holding up the same folder he'd had earlier. "Doesn't quite match the police report."

"Don't know how you got that," Greg replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "But yeah...once certain facts came to light, I was forced to reconsider the conditions of the arrest."

"They'll serve a six month sentence and carry a criminal record," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes and peering at Greg.

His throat tightened, wishing he could have done more to lessen that verdict.

"They broke the law," he said, his voice thin even though he was trying to sound convincing. "Not much I could do. I would have, if I could."

Sherlock nodded, looking down at the folder once more before tossing it onto the chair in front of the desk. Greg watched his brow furrow, his eyes crinkling at the edges as though he was thinking particularly hard about something.

"Molly Hooper is an extraordinary woman," he said suddenly, his face impossible to read. "She's an exceptional scientist and certainly the best in her field. She's also one of the kindest, most loyal people I know."

There were a few seconds of silence before Greg realized Sherlock had completed his speech and was waiting for a reply.

"I'm aware," Greg said with a nod. "That's sort of why I'm seeing her."

"You're a good man, Greg," Sherlock said, to the DI's absolute surprise. "If…anyone is going to be with her…well, you'll treat her well. That's what matters."

With that, Sherlock gave him a tight smile and a curt nod before turning to walk towards the door.

He knew he should let the nagging question in his mind go. He knew he should just forget it and move on. But he'd never been very good about keeping his mouth shut when he was curious.

"Did you treat her well?"

Sherlock stopped, his jaw tensing as he turned back to face him.

"Any man would be a fool not to," he replied noncommittally. "Don't you think?"

Greg stood in the same spot for longer than he should have after Sherlock left.

There was nothing wrong with Molly having past relationships. They all had personal pasts - marriages, long term, one-offs. Hell, he'd met and socialized with her fiance on more than one occasion.

That wasn't a problem.

That wasn't a secret.

She had a right to keep whatever she wanted to close to her heart; she never had to tell him anything about her relationships if she didn't want to and he wouldn't want to pry, if he could help it.

But not so long ago, Sherlock had let himself into her flat like it wasn't the most unusual thing he'd ever done.

Greg pushed the light switch as he left his office, trying to brush off the resurfacing feelings of suspicion and letdown. He trusted Molly, implicitly. She wasn't that type of person. She wasn't...Gail.

"You're quiet tonight," Molly observed as they sat in his kitchen, poking at dim sum.

"Long day," he said, taking a sip of his hardly touched beer.

"Is that all?" she pressed, frowning, nudging a dumpling around her plate. "Nothing to do with…"

Greg looked at her, sucking in a breath as he started to deny the idea. But he couldn't make the lie form.

"He said a few things," he told her, scratching the side of his nose and shaking his head slightly. "Not...it's just, uh, on my mind."

Molly's frown increased and she put her fork down.

"What did he say?" she asked, her mouth thinning out in displeasure. Greg cleared his throat, fiddling with his rolled shirtsleeve. She grimaced and shook her head, looking away from him. "That idiot."

"Nothing specific," he insisted, not sure why he was even defending Sherlock.

"Enough, though," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Sticking his nose in."

Greg's leg bounced slightly under the table as he weighed his next words. It almost wasn't worth bringing up, but he didn't want her to think that it was entirely Sherlock's words that had clued him in.

"I sort of already suspected…" he said carefully. Molly's eyes met his. He let go of his sleeve and set his hand on the table, opening his palm. "He lets himself into your place...texts you late at night."

"That was weeks ago - "

"So that wasn't him the other night?" he said before he could stop himself. He knew immediately that he should have. Bad form to bring it up when he'd pretended not to see her answering texts in the dark. It was habit for him, pretending not to see.

"I told him to stop," she said bluntly. "That was all."

He felt worse.

"Look, um, I think I'm going to go back to mine," she said with a tight laugh, standing up. "Not that hungry after all, and - "

"Molly," he said quickly, jumping up from his chair and following her as she moved towards the door, gathering her things. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to imply - please, stay, please don't leave angry."

"I'm not angry," she replied, pursing her lips and shaking her head. Her ponytail swung dramatically with the sharpness of the action. "I'm just...disappointed."

Out of some stupid habit of chivalry, Greg held the door for her once she'd opened it. He wanted to reach out as she walked through the doorway, do anything to keep her from walking away. He wanted to bash his head into the wall for saying the things he did.

Molly paused in the hall.

"I just...need a little time. Okay?" she told him.

"Whatever you need," he said, nodding, looking at her intently. "I'm really... _really_ sorry."

She gave him a tight smile and a brief nod of her head before turning and heading towards the lift.

He hit the door frame with his palm after he closed the door, cursing himself.

"Absolute idiot," he muttered, pacing the foyer for a moment and trying to figure out if he should just run after her.

In the end, he made for the kitchen and wrenched open the nearest drawer. He wasn't proud of it, but he climbed out his bedroom window onto the fire escape and lit up the first cigarette he'd had in three weeks.

He wasn't surprised to find out that it didn't help one bit.


	14. Terminus Post Quem

Molly hated crying. She hated the way it bubbled up from inside of her without warning and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She'd never possessed that stoic ability once emotions hit her too hard. There was a lot she could endure before she reached that precipice, but the power to stop the tears once they'd decided to make an appearance eluded her.

Most of all, she hated the way it made her feel the next day, as though she'd been slapped across the eyes and given a bad dose of heartburn all at once. Not that she'd cried hard or even all night after leaving Greg's, but it had been the last thing she did before sleep. It left her heavy and worn.

In the light of day, she was beginning to understand that Greg was not entirely unfounded in his feelings, however badly he'd managed to express them. Molly hadn't exactly been forthcoming about the nature of her relationship with Sherlock - she tended to stick to the adage that one does not talk about exes, however fleeting.

It occurred to her, as she stood at the lab bench across from the source of her troubles and bristling with feelings of "fix everything immediately," that she hadn't done enough to draw a line in the sand. She waited until she had all of her equipment set for streaking cultures, figuring that if she had something for her hands to do it would be easier to say what was needed.

"You need to stop," she said, striking the flint over the burner and jerking her hand back as the flame roared to life. The smell of gas and ignition sparks filled her nose.

Sherlock's hands lifted purposefully away from the microscope knobs and he looked up.

"Not that," Molly huffed as she picked up an inoculating loop and dragged the metal through the flame until it turned cherry red. "The other things. Personal things."

"Considering how much I endeavor to make things as impersonal as possible, I am surprised to find myself saying this, but, you'll have to be more specific," he drawled, lowering his head to the microscope once more.

Molly glared at him from across the bench.

"You caused a fight yesterday," she informed him tersely. No answer. "I'll thank you not to discuss our personal history with anyone again."

"I don't believe I did," he snipped.

Molly rounded on him, poker hot loop in hand.

"Oh I beg your pardon," she hissed. "Then why does he seem to think something happened between us."

"Something did happen between us," he reminded her coolly.

"Barely."

"I wouldn't call sex 'barely,' would you?"

"We made a stupid decision."

"Three times."

"And what a cursed number that turned out to be."

"I fail to understand why you're upset. You're with him now, correct? And you value honesty and openness, do you not? Best to have it out, the _ghastly_ things I've seen between couples that keep things hidden - "

"It was not your place to tell him, Sherlock. It was mine, my choice if and when and how to tell him. All you accomplished was making him upset and proving that you really are a selfish, self centered berk who can't accept when things aren't all about him."

The lab was filled with a tense silence for several minutes. Molly tried to focus on the test she was running, her hand almost shaking too much to handle the metal loop safely. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his stillness.

"You're my friend," he said suddenly.

Molly's face distorted in confusion.

"What?"

"You're my friend," he repeated. "Or at least you have been. You were…drifting. I don't blame you for that. It...felt…"

Molly gave him a hard stare, knowing he wasn't going to say the words she wanted to hear: that he was afraid of losing her, that he was scared of damaging her trust and support. Any semblance of regret for the things he'd taken advantage of would have been appreciated.

She let out a heavy sigh.

"I'm still your friend," she said, though her tone was less than friendly. "But no more late night texts. No showing up at my flat unannounced, at all hours. That's not your right anymore."

"Understood," Sherlock agreed. He fiddled with the microscope slides as he changed them out. "Though, for the record, I said nothing particularly incriminating about us. I merely told him that he's a suitable choice for you."

"You...gave him your blessing?" Molly asked incredulously, not feeling at all better about the situation.

"You could both do a lot worse. You both _have_ done a lot worse," he said bluntly, focusing in on the microscope once more.

"Careful, Sherlock, you're letting your sentiment show," she quipped. "And it's _really_ not your area."

The corner of his mouth twitched, though he remained intent on the slide he was inspecting.

Hours later, long after the day crew had gone home and the main lights in the building were turned off, Molly stared down at her phone, pulling the right words together and finally deciding on the simplest tactic.

 _Are you at home?_

 _Office. Working late._

 _Mind if I stop by?_

 _I would love it if you did._

Molly tugged at her sleeve as she rode the lift to his floor at the Met. The security guard had been alerted to her coming, but he still looked surprised that anyone would be visiting at the late hour when she walked into the lobby. She supposed any late-night workers weren't exactly getting visitors to keep them company or bring them meals. The thought made her sad. How many times had Greg stayed late, alone in his office without company while he worked?

She could see the light on in his office from across the empty main floor, the blinds shut but the door cracked open in anticipation of her visit.

Her knuckles wrapped gently on the door as she pushed it open, not wanting to startle him. Greg looked up from his computer and gave her an unsure smile as he stood up. He'd left his jacket and tie draped across the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up a bit. Done for the day, no longer needing to look professional for his team.

"I'm glad you're here," he said earnestly as he walked around to the front of the desk.

"Oh, good," she replied, feeling a relief she didn't realize she needed. "I'm...I dunno, I guess I was worried you wouldn't want to see me."

"No, Molly, if anything it would be the other way 'round," he insisted, leaning against the desk. "You had every right to be mad, I was...out of line."

"It's fine, honestly. I should have been more open with you," she said, pausing to drop her bag onto a nearby chair. Her fingers laced together and she tightened her grip. "I told him to bugger off today, properly, so...done and dusted."

Greg looked at her with an unreadable expression.

"You didn't need to tell him off or anything."

"No, I did. I did," Molly interrupted, placing her hands behind her back and leaning against the wall. Her body pressed them against the firm surface, keeping her from fidgeting so much. "Because he was too familiar and it wasn't appropriate. Not if we're together. And we are, so…"

There were a few beats of silence while Greg studied her and looked to be just about bursting to say something.

"I'm guessing he didn't sleep on the sofa, then...when he dropped into your flat," he ventured slowly, not doing a very good job of hiding his curiosity.

"If I was awake when he showed up, he got the bedroom and I took the couch," Molly told him carefully, studying his reaction before continuing. "If I wasn't…well, we've shared the bed."

Greg looked at the ground, nodding.

"I'm not going to lie to you about it," she said. "I hope that's not a problem."

"The not lying, or the sharing your bed with Sherlock?" he asked with a hollow laugh.

"The not lying," she said firmly. "The other part…that's _long_ over."

"Was it just…sharing?"

Molly cocked her head and her lips thinned out into a small frown.

"Oh," Greg said, his head dropping a little more as he looked at the carpet. "So you… I didn't think that it ever…"

"No. I mean, yes, he stayed sometimes and, and ate my food and was generally…"

"And he was Sherlock," Greg finished for her, trying to save her the embarrassment of having to explain further. He shrugged, obviously attempting to look casual and not at all curious as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Molly pursed her lips and looked hard at him. He was such a good man. He deserved a good relationship after all he had been through, and she was going to have to do more if…if she wanted to be that good relationship. Which she did. She wanted it so desperately.

"Do you want to know everything?" she asked him seriously. He looked at her, his brow furrowed but his eyes intent and interested. "I wouldn't normally … but you know him and I can tell you want to know and I get that. I get how it is to want to know. So, if you're sure?"

Greg blinked and his face softened, nodding at her. Molly took a steadying breath and leaned against the wall.

"He used my flat as a bolt hole after his funeral," she told him. "Not much, but… Obviously, it stopped when Tom was around. After that ended, he came back. He showed up high once and I told him not to bother coming back if he was going to be like that. I think you know as well as I do what he's like."

"Bloody awful," Greg said, suddenly looking protective. "Was he ever…?"

"No," she said immediately, putting his fears to rest. "He's a lot of things, but he never put me in danger." She pulled in another breath and looked at her feet. "We slept together a few times, before that. I don't know why I let it happen. It was … I mean, he was Sherlock, you know? Intense and focused, but at the end of the day just sort of … selfish."

"So what happened?" Greg asked, correctly inferring that things had ended permanently for some reason.

Molly shook her head and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, hating the memory as she recalled it.

"What always happens with users," she told him, equally sad and bitter. "He broke his promises. He let me down one too many times. It was never gonna work. I should have known from day one. Did I ever tell you about that? How I met him?"

"No," he said gently, waiting.

It sounded cliché, but she honestly remembered every detail of the first day she met Sherlock Holmes. It had been eight years before, during her rounds in A&E. She'd nearly been done with her residency, ready to move on to her practice, when she'd pulled back the white curtain of an examination room and come face to face with a well-dressed, chiseled, and shrewd drug addict.

"Fancy car dropped him off outside," the nurse had told her, glaring at the patient with disdain. "Keeps saying the government will be after us if we don't treat him with respect."

"Leave now, let the good doctor do her job. You've been abysmal, I'm eager to see what Barts is producing in the way of residency candidates these days."

It was the first time she'd heard that deep, bored tone of his, his words surprisingly clear given the list of drugs the charts said he had in his system.

"Not a doctor yet," she'd told him, pulling out her light to inspect his eyes – bloodshot and unfocused and the clearest ice-blue she'd ever seen.

"But close. Four more months? No, three, you're taking the longer night shifts to boost your hours. And at the age of twenty-seven, very impressive. Will that do to escape your humble beginnings and bring a little success to your family?"

She'd stopped in her tracks, the blood pressure wrap hanging limply on his elbow as she gaped pathetically.

"Wh-what?"

"Threadbare clothes, second hand, shoes repaired at least once, inherited jewelry from the nineteen-thirties that doesn't even pass as stylishly vintage, not to mention a complete lack of effort to appear feminine, I would say you have a blue-collar father and a socially incompetent mother whom you've always made a large effort never to overshadow or compete with. The exception is your career aspirations because you have the brains for it. BP is one-sixty over ninety, by the way, high, but not enough to alert the theatre."

If he remembered this first meeting clearly, he never said anything.

"What a bastard," Greg muttered.

"That was nothing compared to Mycroft waltzing in the next day and saying that his brother needed watching and would I consider taking a position at Barts morgue," she went on, laughing a little. "He said that if Sherlock was going to be mucking around in crimes investigation, he might as well be working with a halfway decent pathologist."

"And you took it?" Greg asked, astonished.

"No," Molly assured him. "No, as much as I would have loved to jump at the chance, I wasn't prepared to be handed a position like that simply because a Holmes _arranged_ it for me."

"So, then, what did it?"

"About a month later, Sherlock came back … clean, this time. He said I was moderately bright and showed potential and if I would like it, he knew that Mike Stamford was accepting applications for a Specialty Registrar position," Molly said, shrugging. "He said he thought I wouldn't be horrible in the job."

"High praise," Greg joked with a downturn of his mouth.

"I suppose," she said with another shrug. "Like I said, I should have known from the start … he's not easily counted on. I know everyone knew I carried a torch for him. Tom...it drove him away, when he found out. Somewhere between that and Sherlock's relapse, I...it just all hit me, how wrong it was, how stupid I'd been. That sometimes it's better to move on from what's broken, for your sanity, you know?"

"Yeah, I do know," Greg agreed. He looked at the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. "My, uh, my ex-wife… I forgave her more times than I should. We were married, and that's what you do when you take those vows, you forgive and you fix things. For years, if it comes to that. Even when you know...even when you see the emails and the unknown numbers and the pants in the car that don't belong to you." He stopped for a moment and Molly could have sworn she saw him disappear, just for a second, wrapped up in the horrible memories. His eyes went hard and glassy. "I could do that until she brought it into our home…when you see the person you love in your bed with another man, it suddenly becomes a lot harder to forgive."

Molly swallowed hard as she listened to him, her heart aching as she heard his voice break on the last few words. Oh God, no wonder he'd been so worried about Sherlock. She was so dense; she couldn't believe she'd failed to make the connection. He'd spent years in an unfaithful marriage that he was constantly trying to salvage before it became too hard; the last thing that he needed was to be fretting over the threat of that situation again.

She crossed the office in a few strides and slipped an arm around his waist, her other hand reaching up to cup his cheek. Three days worth of stubble tickled her palm.

He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, the sadness dropping away from his face as he immediately placed his hands on her hips.

"Can I be really honest with you?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," he sighed, his eyes opening to look at her. "Yeah, of course."

"I think I…I'm really happy, Greg," she told him, her thumb stroking his cheek. "For the first time in my life. Really happy and just…content. And it's because of you. It's because I'm _with_ you. And I don't see that changing."

"Molly," he murmured, his hands sliding around to the small of her back, pulling her closer. He dropped his forehead against hers. "I'm so unbelievably happy with you. I…"

"I know," she said, her heart in her throat. He wasn't ready to say it yet, and that was fine. She could wait, because she understood that the feeling was there. "Me too."

He held her face in his palm and tipped it up to meet him, his lips landing desperately on hers. She felt instantly that there was something different in that kiss. She felt the weight in it, the aching need to love and be loved. Her body and soul responded immediately, her arms wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him as close as she physically could.

His mouth became insistent, hot and greedy, and she felt him pulling at the buttons of her jumper.

"Greg," she panted, not really wanting to pull away but needing to in order to speak. "We're in your office."

"I am fully aware of that," he said, dropping a hungry kiss to her neck and making her insides turn molten. "Fortunately, the door locks...everyone is gone...and I want you, Molly. Right now."

Oh dear God, was he really suggesting this? There was something insanely exciting about the idea, despite her practical side insisting that it was the dumbest thing in the world to do. While her mind was busy warring with itself about the idea, Greg was closing and locking the door, lifting her up onto the desk and pulling her jumper and blouse off. Pressing her back onto the hard surface as he swept papers and pens to the floor. Saying how much he wanted her as he ground against her and kissed her more tenderly than she'd ever been kissed in her life. Strangled words that sounded like love murmured against her skin as she clenched around him and he spilled into her.


	15. Provenience

**Provenience: The three-dimensional context of an archaeological find,**

 **giving information about its function and date.**

* * *

"Finally have the inventory from Cambridge," Donovan announced, handing over a thick file as Greg walked by her desk.

"Ah, thank you," he said cheerfully, flashing her a smile.

"Happy to have work?" she quipped, smirking. "Lost your mind, have you?"

"Nothing of the sort, Donovan."

"Something else putting you in high spirits, then?"

"Haven't the faintest idea what you're on about," he replied cheekily as he walked away. "And wouldn't share if I did."

"So you'll have a report by tomorrow on all of that?" Donovan asked, pointing to the file.

"Can't make any promises."

"I'll just text our resident pathologist and let her know you have homework," Donovan said.

Greg turned briefly midway to his office.

"That's low, Sergeant," he said, feigning a wound to his heart.

"Just looking out for your job security, sir."

He chuckled and turned to head into his office, shutting the door behind him before crossing the small space to his desk. The thick file of papers was dumped onto his workspace and he allowed his fingers to drag along the wooden surface as he circled to his chair.

God, he'd been properly out of his mind that night. Out his mind for Molly and lost in his desire for her. It was unlikely that it would signal the start of any adventurous rendezvous habits for them, but it certainly gave him plenty of material for… fantasies.

He would never be able to look at his desk again and not think of her. It made working very difficult.

He teased her about it that night in his flat, tucked up on the sofa with crap telly on and the case files spread between them. She had eagerly offered to help him scan through the inventory lists, happy to spend time with him and genuinely interested in the outcome of the murder investigation.

"Detective Inspector, it was entirely your idea to corrupt your desk," Molly said with a smirk, sipping her evening tea as she rifled through the timeline papers. "You're accountable for the results."

"Should do the same at Barts, return the favor," he suggested with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Molly laughed and then grimaced.

"Couldn't think of anything less sanitary," she said.

"Fair point."

"Any thoughts on where you'll start next with this?" she asked, indicating the paperwork.

"Well," Greg said with an exaggerated stretch, leaning back into the cushions. "We can hope that these lists point us in the direction of someone else who was involved, maybe someone looking to recover the artifacts. Although…"

Molly glanced over at him.

"Although?"

"Circumstances being what they are - the missing money, the body snatching, the clean absconding - experience tells me it points towards a personal issue. Probably domestic."

Her lips quirked downward as she considered his words.

"Do you think he really did it?" Molly asked him quietly.

"I would like to think not," he said with a tired sigh, reaching for the file on the household inventory, hoping to see something on a second look. "But, when you've been investigating murders as long as I have, I'm sad to say that personal issues cause far more crimes than anything else."

"I'll never get used to it," she told him, tucking her feet up onto the sofa as she settled in to get more comfortable. Greg had to force himself to focus on the paper in front of him, allowing himself only a few glances at Molly curled into the corner of his sofa. It was a sight that made him … yearn. "The way people treat each other, you'd think at some point we would all learn how to behave."

"The world turns, we never change," he said, lifting his feet to the coffee table.

"Very poetic."

"Two semesters of creative writing in uni," he told her with a lopsided smile. Molly looked at him and giggled lightly.

He smiled back at her and watched as she became absorbed in the report once more. He made it five seconds looking down at his file before his eyes drifted up again, feeling his heart begin to beat a little faster as he considered the fact that they were finally alone in his flat after several busy days apart. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he forced himself to focus and looked back down at the paper in his hand.

And that was when he saw it.

"Oh," he exhaled, sitting up again and hoping the sinking feeling he had was wrong.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Their insurance lists five mummies as part of their personal collection," he said, holding the paper out for her to see as she unfolded her legs and scooted closer. "Guess how many there were when they inspected the home?"

"Oh no," Molly said, her face mirroring his own feelings. "Six."

"Ever performed a post-mortem on a mummy before?"

"There's a first time for everything."

oOo

The very next day, after arranging for her shift to be covered at Barts, Molly found herself back in the basement exhibit of the Davis' estate, face to face with the dehydrated and mummified body that had scared the living daylights out of her weeks before. This time, work lights flooded the hidden room and numbered tags had been attached to every item in sight, corresponding to the carefully maintained inventory list of the property. In the chaos of that day, she'd failed to notice the two other mummies that accompanied their companion. Three more were displayed elsewhere in the grand house, the relics of an Egyptian tomb.

"You're sure this is the one?" Greg asked her as SOCO wheeled a gurney in behind them.

"Quite," Molly answered. "The differences are subtle, but they are there. The wearing of the bone is not severe. Bandages are authentic, but they could have been borrowed from another specimen and reapplied," she informed him, pulling at the wrappings with her purple-gloved fingers. "And," she added, leaning close to the body, "if you smell carefully, there is the scent of chemicals. Ethanol, likely to speed along the dehydration process."

Greg let out a low whistle.

"Male or female?" he asked.

"Based on visible bone structure, male," she said with a frown. They both stepped back as SOCO moved in to carefully lift the body onto the stretcher, placing it into a sterile body bag. "I should have noticed."

"How could you have," Greg said. "This wasn't at all what we were looking for."

"Still. It would've saved you weeks."

"Not another word about it, Hooper," he told her. "This isn't on you."

Molly looked at him with barely concealed doubt.

The autopsy took her three days, the longest she'd ever spent on one victim. She was rather glad to only have one to manage. She'd inspected all of the other corpses in the home before they'd driven to Cambridge and she'd had the undesired privilege of analyzing every mummy in their collection as well. With a body still missing, Greg was unwilling to let any avenue remain unexplored.

"I assure you, I would know if there was an extra specimen present in our collection," Paul Harris, the department's curator and research professor, told them as he escorted them around the exhibit and back room.

He shuffled through the inventory list he kept and compared it with the Yard's own inspection, struggling to handle both packets and keep his glasses from slipping down the bridge of his nose at the same time. His clothing seemed to be having a hard time as well, at least two sizes too large for his thin frame and horribly out of style. Molly would have been more critical of his general appearance, but she wasn't exactly known for her style choices either. She understood the lack of importance in that department when one was secluded in a lab and a white coat all day; she sympathized with him, really.

"Just a precaution, Mr. Harris," Greg said, watching Molly look at yet another wrapped body.

"Ehm, Doctor," Paul said.

"What?"

"Doctor. I earned my doctoral degree some years ago, so, technically, my correct prefix is 'Doctor,'" Paul rambled nervously. "It would be the equivalent of calling you Mr. Lestrade when you have clearly earned the title of Detective Inspector."

Greg exchanged a look with Molly and she shrugged.

"Right then," Greg said. "It's just a precaution, _Doctor_."

Timid as the poor man clearly was around Greg's authority, he was helpful and Molly was confident that no further murder victims were lurking behind glass cases in the Cambridge exhibit.

The post-mortem took its toll on her. It was easy enough to get the DNA evidence she needed to prove that the body was indeed Donald Davi, but whoever had done such an awful thing to him had been thorough. And careful. Aside from what was specifically needed to turn Mr. Davi into a mummy, there was no contamination. Even using Sherlock-like examination technique, she found nothing that could pinpoint how, where, and why he had been sucked dry and wrapped in ancient linens.

She did, however, find the cause of death: a basilar fracture in his parietal bone, right at the back of his head. It was enough to cause leakage of the cerebrospinal fluid, possibly hemorrhage, and certainly death if not attended to immediately, which it clearly wasn't. The wound didn't bear the hallmarks of blunt object trauma, which led her to conclude he had hit his head somehow. A table, wall, particularly robust car, any of it would have been sufficient for the trauma if the impact had been severe.

"How difficult is it to mummify a body?" Greg asked the night she finished the post-mortem.

She was spread on her stomach across his sheets, bare from the waist up and enjoying the ministrations of his hands as he worked the tension of three days' work out of her back and shoulders.

"Surprisingly not that hard, if you have access to the right things," she answered, her voice slightly muffled in the mattress.

"What kind of access?"

"A credit card and good internet connection," Molly quipped sardonically. "And a place to hide the body where no one will notice the smell."

"So any nutter with a basement," he grumbled, hitting a particularly sore spot by her shoulder blade.

"Mph," she groaned. "And access to ancient linens."

His hands stopped briefly and she opened her eyes to look over her shoulder.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing, I'm just resigning myself to more days of interviews with anyone at the gala who has knowledge and access to the egyptology collection," he grumbled.

"I'll trade you a three-day post-mortem any time," Molly said with a smirk.

"Ah, no, no thank you," Greg replied quickly, grabbing hold of her waist and flipping her over. He lowered his body over hers and dropped a kiss to her mouth. "Feeling better?"

"Mmm, much," she told him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "But I can think of one more thing that might help…"

"Oh?" Greg said with a raise of his eyebrow, pressing into her. "I think I might be able to help with that…"

oOo

The only thing better than a massage followed by an hour long round of lovemaking was a mid-week day off, thanks to a light caseload and the generosity of Mike Stamford. Molly could really get used to that sort of schedule, especially at the end of a difficult case.

If only Greg were around to enjoy part of the day with her. As it was, he was on his way to Cambridge to put a little pressure on the staff, while she was still enjoying her porridge and fruit as she browsed the headlines on her laptop and waited for an update from him. It was the usual - some celebrity had mouthed off on social media, politicians were lying, and coffee was once again thought to cure, not cause, cancer.

She sipped her tea, clicking on the link to find out what was happening in the world of science and academia. New publications on cancer research, advancements on the workings of the Zika virus…

"Huh."

 _Archaeology Professor at Cambridge Awarded Research Grant_

She clicked on the story, her chewing slowing down as she read.

 _Late colleague's grant is passed on to Paul Harris as Cambridge team looks to continue his work._

Molly skipped past the obligatory backstory to the meat of the article.

 _Donald Davi had been awarded the_ ₤ _200,000 grant for studies in India and Cambodia before disappearing after his wife's murder. Scotland Yard confirmed this week that Davi was also a victim in what is believed to be a connected murder. Doctor Harris, a colleague of Davi's, is eager to carry on the Davis' legacy and research with the grant._

 _When asked for comment on the Davis' black market connections, Harris responded, "We are all quite saddened to hear about their involvement. They were good eggs. They did marvelous things for the field of archaeology."_

 _Harris, a renowned expert in Egyptology and Roman and Greek civilizations…_

Molly stopped reading, picking up her phone to call Greg. While his mobile rang, she forwarded the article to his personal email, catching his voicemail just as the email sent with a woosh.

"Greg, it's me. I just sent you an article that might mean nothing, but… well, just take a look at it and give me a call back."

Without much else to do, she started Googling. The results were nothing incriminating, but she couldn't let go of the nagging feeling she had. When a half hour had passed and no response came from Greg, she began to become concerned. She started pacing her lounge and made another call.

"Sally, this is Molly," she said, worrying the edge of her t-shirt. "Did you go to Cambridge with Greg today?"

"No, desk duty today," Sally told her.

"Oh," Molly said, hesitating. She didn't want to worry the sergeant unnecessarily, but she was beginning to worry. "Look, I don't know if it's anything, but he won't answer his phone and I saw something in the news…"

By the time she finished relaying what she'd seen to her, Sally was telling her to forward the article and get down to the Yard.


	16. Organic

**Here it is, the final chapter. Thank you all for your patience. Real life has taken precedence over the last few months and I feel relieved to finally have this completed. Every kudos, every comment, every hit has meant so much and kept me going. Thank you, all!**

 **ENORMOUS, incredible thanks and all my love to my beta and cheerleader, MoodyBlue42. I literally could not have done this without her help. Gem of a person, that one.**

 **Just a quick PSA: I will only be publishing my stories on AO3 from now on. FanFic dot net has generally become a bear to work on as far as publishing stories and I do not like their new policy on anon reviews (specifically the fact that I can not turn off that function anymore and opt out). I publish under the same pen name, so please feel free to jump on over to AO3 for future stories!**

* * *

"I'm not exactly sure what you're asking, Detective Inspector."

Gillian Evans, the head of the Division of Archaeology, was a kind but busy woman. At ten in the morning, she had shed her marigold blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse. A stack of papers half a foot high sat on her desk and her desk phone blinked red, no doubt loaded with messages. Greg couldn't shake the feeling that he should consider himself lucky she was looking directly at him as they spoke.

"I just need to know if anyone on your staff might have, uh, professional experience with mummification," he said carefully.

"Plenty of staff and students here have studied the techniques and history of mummification extensively," Professor Evans replied, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down her nose at him. "It rather goes hand in hand with graduate work in Egyptology."

"So, anyone particularly talented in that area?" he pressed.

"Again, Detective, I don't quite know what you're asking me," Professor Evans huffed, clearly becoming frustrated.

Greg felt his frustration level spike as well.

"If I wanted to mummify a dead body, who would I go talk to, in your professional opinion?" he asked bluntly.

"Paul Harris," she told him, reaching for a stack of papers and dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "His office is down the hall. If he's not there, you'll find him in the lab."

"And that would be where?"

"Basement level, north end."

He tried not to fume as he rode the lift down to the bottom floor, having been unable to locate Mr. Harris in his designated work space. Of all people, it would be that nervous little man, wouldn't it? Staring him right in the face and practically broadcasting his inferiority complex when confronted with authority. He'd known plenty of men like that in his lifetime, so desperate to stand up to whatever bullies they'd endured when they were young that they failed to realize how harsh and bitter they had become as adults. It wasn't common that their stories ended in violence, but from time to time...

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out just as the lift doors opened. A missed call from Molly and a new email.

"Damn," he muttered, realizing as he tried to access either message that reception in the basement was utter crap. He'd have to call her back later.

Tucking the phone away, he focused on the task at hand. Directory signs told him where he would find the archaeology lab in the seemingly vast maze of the basement hallways. Places like those had always given him the willies, monochromatic and empty as they always seemed to be. He followed the numbers on the doorways, the overhead lights buzzing slightly with electricity. Out of habit and a need to know that he had the option, he ran a hand over the pistol he had holstered under his jacket. It was authorized by the Yard. Barely.

He let himself into the archaeology lab, a large, rectangular room devoid of windows but awash in artificial light. Every available surface was taken up with books, papers, artifacts, or equipment. Everything from pottery to skulls and sarcophagi sat in various spots, waiting to have their secrets discovered at the competent hands of the Cambridge staff.

"Excuse me, this is a restricted area…"

Paul Harris trailed off as he came around the corner of a lab bench. He visibly swallowed, his eyes widening, and Greg knew instantly that he was looking at the Davis' killer.

"Detective," Paul said, his voice weak. "Was there something you needed?"

"I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions, Paul," Greg told him, moving slowly towards him and keeping his tone calm. "I think it would be best if you came back to London with me."

"No, I don't believe that's going to happen," Paul said, suddenly steeling.

"Look, I've made it two whole weeks without needing to forcibly cuff anyone," Greg said, attempting to play the nice cop. "I would really like to continue that pattern. So why don't you just come with me."

"You won't cuff me," Paul said firmly. "You have no reason, no evidence to arrest me."

"Due time, Paul. I assure you, the law will be on my side."

"About what?" Paul laughed, albeit nervously.

"Finding out about the Davis and their research fraud," Greg stated, carefully watching Paul's face. "Confronting them and killing them because you were… mad? Jealous? Accidental, or not, you still did it, and did your best to cover it all up. You used your skills as best you could to hide what you had done, trying to hide the evidence in plain sight. And you can either make this rather easy on yourself, relatively, or very, very hard. Your choice."

Paul's mouth turned down and he hesitated. For a moment, Greg thought he might actually go quietly. But in the next second, he yanked the stool next to him off the floor and flung it at Greg, dashing away. The stool caught the edge of Greg's arm, but he managed to leap clear of any direct damage, yanking his gun from its holster and running after Paul. The man pulled everything within reach off of the lab bench as he ran along and Greg struggled to keep his footing as he lept over equipment and artifacts. Seeing a clearing on the bench, he launched himself onto the tabletop and slid to the other side, hoping to cut Paul off before he could reach the door. Not quite believing that he would actually make a go of it, Greg raised his gun and tempered his racing heart as he watched Paul hurtle towards him with what looked like a small wooden shield.

"Stop!" Greg shouted, waiting until the last second possible before squeezing off a shot, hitting Paul squarely in the shoulder.

The man staggered backward and howled and Greg rushed him, reaching for his cuffs.

He underestimated what Paul was made of. In a split second, the shield was flying through the air with a last ditch force and it connected with Greg's ribs. Stinging pain shot through his chest and the wind left him instantly. His gun and cuffs fell from his suddenly useless hands.

His body connected hard with the floor and he saw a pair of shoes limp towards him before everything went black.

oOo

"Do you know who he was going to talk to?" Sally asked Molly as they raced at a breathtaking pace down the road.

"No, he just wanted to poke around, see what he could suss out." She went silent for a moment, listening to his mobile ring and go to voicemail yet again. "He's still not answering. Damnit."

She was nearing panic.

"Rule number one," Sally said, her voice even and controlled with years of practice. "Don't freak out until you have to."

"My boyfriend has gone silent while investigating a murder, I feel like I need to freak out."

She saw Sally glance at her.

"That's the first time I've heard you call him that."

"It's the first time I've ever said it," Molly replied, unsure of the revelation.

Boyfriend.

It seemed like a weird title for people their age, but nothing else fit. Lover sounded off to her ears, as though it were only sexual. Partner sounded so stiff. Significant other…

Why was her mind going through the catalogue of monikers when none of it mattered if something happened to him?

"Hey," Sally said, reaching over with one hand to stop Molly from worrying her handbag in half. "He's a tough old bloke. He's faced worse. And we're going to find him."

It didn't take them long to track his steps to the division head's office. A DI from London was an anomaly amongst the Cambridge archaeology students and staff and he'd stood out.

"Do I need to be worried for my department's safety?" Professor Evans asked insistently after Sally demanded to know the exact route to Paul Harris.

"I'd call for a lockdown, yeah," Sally suggested, pulling out her authorized weapon and checking the safety. Molly tried not to let the sight frighten her any more than she already was. "It'll make things cleaner and easier when I catch this wanker."

Professor Evans' eyes widened in genuine worry and she reached for the phone as Molly followed Sally out the door.

"Do as I say," Sally instructed in the lift, watching the numbers tick down until they reached the basement. "Stay behind me and don't do anything to put yourself in danger unnecessarily. Got it?"

"Yes," Molly answered, taking a deep breath as the lift doors slid open and they stepped into the hall.

oOo

Greg woke slowly, his chest throbbing and his lungs burning faintly. They still felt deflated, trying to recover the missing air that had been knocked out of him. When his eyesight evened out, he looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was and what the industrial noises of steam and motors were. Even in the dim light it only took him a moment to realize that he had been dragged into the boiler room, his hands tied in front of him with a nylon rope. And he wasn't alone.

A badly decomposing body lay just to his right, similarly tied and wrapped loosely in a white sheet.

The smell was overwhelming and he struggled not to heave.

He looked across the room and saw Paul busy at a folding table, vials and beakers of liquid and other materials scattered across the work space.

Considering that the man had murdered two people, Paul had done a piss poor job of restraining Greg and he was able to easily push himself to his feet.

Paul was standing between him and the the door. Oblivious. It may not have been the choice dictated in his police training, but given that Greg was fairly certain his alternative was mummification, he plowed forward with as much force as he could manage and drove his shoulder into Paul's side.

Paul yelped in surprise and locked his arms around Greg as the two of them crashed into the table and then to the ground. They scuffled on the cement floor, Greg doing the best he could with tied hands by lifting them over Paul's head and putting him in a choke hold.

If he had had free use of his hands, he could have reached for Paul's arm to stop him from grasping for the tools that had been knocked to the ground when they collided. He could have done more to restrain him and protect himself. Those were the regretful thoughts that sprang through his mind as Paul plunged something sharp into Greg's stomach.

The pain was immediate, hot and blinding. His hold loosened on Paul and the other man scrambled away, faltering for a moment before bolting towards the door. Greg moaned, pressing his hands over his stomach and rolling to his side involuntarily.

Through eyes squinted in pain, he watched Paul go flying out of the boiler room and nearly collide with Sally Donovan on the other side of the door. The sergeant skillfully sidestepped his onslaught and tripped him, sending him sprawling onto the floor in front of Molly. Oh God, Molly, why was she there?

In the few seconds it took Paul to get his hands under him, preparing to push to his feet again, Molly had yanked her Farb Gel from her handbag and pulled the cap off, aiming the bright blue spray directly into Paul's face. He shouted and clawed at his eyes, falling onto his back.

Sally trained her weapon on him as she glanced into the boiler room, spying Greg on the floor.

"Molly," she said urgently. "Help him. I've got this."

"Oh my God," Molly breathed, literally dropping everything and rushing into the boiler room.

He groaned as she knelt by his side, her hands gingerly taking hold of his and prying them away from where he'd been stabbed. Everything went grey and fuzzy for a moment, Molly's sweet face going in and out of focus. He could feel his body start to shake.

"Greg," Molly said firmly, starting to unbutton his shirt. "Can you hear me? Look at me."

He did as she said, even though his vision was swimming.

"Molly," he gasped. God, it hurt.

"Good, you stay with me," Molly told him. She opened his shirt and he heard her muttered, "Shit."

"That bad?" he said, forcing a smile onto his face.

"You're going to be okay," she ordered, her voice shaking slightly as she removed her jumper and pressed it to his stomach. "All right? You're going to be fine."

"You have an exceptional talent with the dead, Hooper, but you're not that good," he wheezed, coughing and groaning as she pressed on the wound. He watched her face as he felt the shock creeping in – her strong jaw, her adorable nose, her surprisingly serious brow. He decided right then and there that if he was going to have a last moment, he wanted it to be looking at her. "Hey," he said, grabbing her attention. Molly looked at him, her hands still working furiously at his abdomen. "I love you, Molly."

Her face contorted in shock and fear before settling into something resembling frustration.

"Stop that right now," she told him. "You don't need to do that because you're going to be fine."

"Either way," he gasped, wincing. "I do love you. And there's nothing you can do to stop me saying so."

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but the corner of her mouth turned up.

"I love you, too," she murmured. "Now you hang on so we can tell each other in a proper setting."

She kept one hand pressed to his wound as the other found his, squeezing tightly. He clung to the contact as consciousness slipped from him, hearing Sally on the phone calling for backup and an ambulance.

oOo

Molly always felt out of place in other hospitals. She'd done so much of her schooling and training at Barts, it felt like home. When she didn't know every nook and cranny of a place and every face she saw, it left her feeling helpless. The Cambridge Hospital certainly had her feeling like an outsider.

It really didn't help that the man she loved was laid up in one of their beds and his general care was out of her hands. She was able to keep an eye on everything and look after his progress and medication, but the staff patted her shoulder and told her, "Don't worry, luv, he's in good hands."

Which left her with nothing to do but worry for two days as he recovered from surgeries, sitting by his bedside until the attending nurse told her to go home (a hotel room, for the time being). At least it kept her away from London and away from the awful man who had done this to him. A man who was currently awaiting a murder trial and would easily be convicted.

"He's confessed to everything," Sally told her when she came to check in on Greg. "Found out that the Davis were deep into the black market and getting all sorts of funding and financial benefit out of it. Plus fame. I think that bothered him the most, though he hasn't said it."

"And he killed them for it," Molly said flatly.

"Indeed he did," the sergeant confirmed. "He confronted Donald after the gala, where he'd stolen the black market knife, and when things got nasty, it turned physical. Smashed his head in and panicked. In his mind, the next step was to kill Linda to keep her quiet."

"And then stole her body from the morgue."

"It was a lot easier for him to make off with Donald's body that night," Sally informed her. "He couldn't get her out of the hotel, so he had to wait for another opportunity."

"And the man with him during the Barts robbery?" Molly asked.

"A colleague," Sally said somewhat sadly. "Who thought he was there for a research pickup. Didn't realize what he'd been dragged into."

"All of that over a research grant," Molly said, gritting her teeth angrily.

"I suspect ego had a lot to do with it," Sally confided. "He might not look like much, but that doesn't mean he didn't have it in him." She looked over Molly's shoulder into Greg's room. "How is he?"

"In and out," Molly told her, rubbing her arm. "But he's recovering well. They were able to repair the damage and he's avoiding infection. All good things."

"And how are you?" Dark brown eyes looked straight into Molly's, full detective mode activated.

"Worried out of my mind," Molly said with a nervous laugh.

"Love will do that to you," Sally said knowingly.

A few days later, Molly was walking into the hospital with a small package she'd had to go on quite a search for. She found Greg sitting up and looking more alert. He smiled broadly when she walked into his room.

"What's this?" Greg asked with a smile, taking the box from Molly.

"Long overdue tiramisu," she said, immediately wrinkling her nose. "I did not mean for that to rhyme."

He chuckled, taking a peek into the box.

"I think I promised this to you a while back. Something about making up for a little pop on the nose," she said, somewhat cheeky. Greg's eyebrows rose. "Did you know that it translates to 'pick-me-up?' Thought it was appropriate."

Greg set the box on the bedside table.

"Best get-well gift I've received. I'll save that for later when I'm done forcing down what they claim is chicken soup," he told her, taking her hand and tugging her down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I believe they enjoy lying about the contents of the food here."

"They make you take a class in medical school," she quipped. "How to get patients to eat fake meat and sauce in five variations."

"Really?"

"No," Molly laughed, slipping her hand more securely in his. "But it might be useful."

She stared down at their entwined fingers.

"Why the serious brow, Hooper?" he asked, drawing a finger down her temple.

"Other than the fact that I almost lost you?"

"You didn't," he said. "Takes more than a murderous lunatic to take me down."

Molly laughed gently.

"There's, um… there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about. Something I wanted to say, but I've been waiting for the right moment," she said, looking up and seeing his expression suddenly serious. She smiled tenderly. "I love you, Greg."

His face broke out in a smile once more and he laughed, pulling her close so that their foreheads touched.

"This is the proper setting, then?" he asked, threading his fingers in her hair.

"As good as any," she said with a smile. "I couldn't wait any longer."

"I'm glad," Greg said, tilting his head and capturing her mouth in a kiss. "Because I love you, too, Molly."

oOo

 _Five months later..._

The alarm went off at six o'clock, the same as it did every morning. Greg rolled over and blindly felt around the bedside table for the phone, finally locating it and hitting snooze. Then he rolled back the other way and scooted towards the warm body he had been previously wrapped around.

His clothes from the previous day were strewn with hers on the floor; the rest of his wardrobe was tucked neatly into her closet and in half of the dresser. His books had found a home on her shelves and his various other personal items had fit in so seamlessly it was as though the empty spots had been waiting for him all along. The only new item, the only one she didn't know about, was the small square box hidden at the back of his sock drawer, saved for the perfect day when he could work up the courage to give it to her and hope to God she liked him enough to say yes…

He breathed in the flowery scent of her hair and kissed the bare skin of her neck. Molly giggled sleepily and shrugged her shoulder, curling into his body.

"S'morning," she mumbled, lacing her fingers through his as he rested his hand on her stomach. "Aren' we running today? You'll be late."

"Ten more minutes," he sighed happily, nestling into the pillow and pulling her close.


End file.
